Mind the gap
by littlenglander
Summary: Escaping to London seemed like a good idea for Frank Hardy after losing his brother and having no hopes to believe Joe could be alive. How does one mind the gap between painful reality and desperate belief in the impossible?
1. Mind the gap

"Mind the gap. This is a Northern line service to…High Barnet. The next station is…Belsize Park."

After three months of living in London, Frank still found the pauses in announcement amusing, as if the voice wanted to intrigue the passengers with something like "and the Oscar goes to…." There was nothing amusing about travelling by the evening tube, however.

People of all nationalities looked tired and indifferent, as the train dragged along the dark tunnels. Was it rainy November or typical London "whatever, never mind" behaviour, Frank still didn't know. Neither did he care. He found it comforting that he was just one of many and that everyone minded their own business and he didn't have to catch anyone's sympathetic glances or hear "I was so sorry to hear the news".

The train was approaching his station. He grabbed his backpack and stood up.

"Mind the gap".

Once outside, Frank lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. The bad habit didn't help him deal with stress anymore, but it was a familiar attribute of his new life, one where he was fine with destroying his health. His tiny studio apartment in Camden Town district of London was on the 1st floor he still was fit enough to use the stairs without having to catch his breath at the top. And there was no more running after the criminals, so why in the world would he need healthy lungs?

Frank continued his walk down the dark street, careful to circle the puddles. The air smelled of rain and wet earth and almost left a sweetish taste in his throat. Just as he approached the door to the apartment complex, a drizzle began. Somehow, when you go to London for vacation, it's always warm and sunny, but once you move to live there, chilly drizzle just never stops.

He closed the door to his apartment and switched on the lights. The place was small, a living room and a kitchenette, but it was well-equipped and cosy. Frank seldom saw or heard his neighbours and it was just what he needed.

The 20-year-old turned on the TV, which showed some talent-searching show, and went to open a window. He still sniggered when the Brits called this action "open a window", because their strange window-frames that slid 7 inches up didn't allow anyone to even stick their heads out into the street. Then again, sticking a head out into the street was an act of interest in the street's life, which was very arrogant. Very arrogant indeed.

Frank took his supper out of the fridge – ready-to-serve salads were easy to find in every food store and it made independent living so much easier. He missed his mother's cooking, home-made and with a touch of motherly care, as he was fed up with pre-made cuisine and sandwiches, so popular in England these days, but he hoped that the fed-up stage would progress to a never-mind one soon.

The talent show was no good, so he took the remote and searched through other Saturday night TV entertainment opportunities. He finally found a channel that showed an American movie and made himself comfortable on the couch. One funny thing about living alone was that he could talk to technical equipment without receiving smart remarks. So he felt free to repeat after the movie characters, just to practice the American accent. Three months of living in England were just enough to start to pick the British pronunciation and some catchy phrases.

Watching the family melodrama reminded him that he should have called home yesterday ("yestahday" his mind corrected him). With the time difference, it was 3 PM in Bayport. He didn't know if his father was there or working on a case in some far-away part of the world, but his mother and aunt were most certainly there. Frank was not sure if he wanted to talk to them alone – somehow, his father decreased the emotional levels of their phone conversations, almost cutting it to "hi – how're you – good , you? – great – what's new – nothing, you? – it's Bayport, nothing's changing here, you know – yeah… - *awkward pause* okay, I must go for now, it's late in here – okay, call you next week? – sure, bye – bye". Short and informational. Everyone knew everyone was fine and it was fine for everyone.

Frank never took the blame off himself for the emotional distance within the family. When he transferred from New York University to University College London, it was not to get a better education. When he left the States and moved to Britain, it was not to experience the adventures of immigration. When he left his family behind, it was not to prove anyone he was finally an independent adult.

Some nights, he wondered who he was now. Well, he was a promising student at UCL. He was an acquaintance of some people. He was a decent neighbour in a nice London district. He was still a son to his parents. He was many things.

But most of all, he was still himself, broken by his brother's death four months ago.


	2. Escape

When Joe died, life stopped. It didn't break into before and after, because there was no after.

After school, Frank moved to study at NYU. The City was just a two-hour's drive from Bayport, which allowed him to stay close to the family while he waited for Joe to join him at the University a year later. Despite the distance, they remained as close as before and even took a few cases together.

But it was not a case that took Joe's life. It was a pure accident that put an end to all their plans and dreams.

On Friday of June 26th, Joe was driving to NYC to meet up with his brother for the weekend and lost control on the slippery road. The car hit the road guard and crushed into a ditch. Before the many witnesses could get to him and help, fuel tank caught a spark of fire. The DNA tests confirmed that the body, burnt beyond recognition in explosion, was Joe's.

Fenton and Frank investigated every possibility of crime behind the accident, but after a month of looking into every detail they had to give up. They hadn't been on a case. No one sought revenge. No one called to say they held Joe as hostage and wanted something in return.

Joe was just gone.

No one was to blame for that.

It was just the rain that happened to fall that morning.

Simple as that.

Pain is always simple.

When August came, Frank had no more tears to cry and no more strength to deal with sympathies. He moved back to New York, only to be attacked of the memories and shattered dreams of how the brothers were going to enjoy student years. So he did the only thing there was left to do - escape, the further the better.

He weighted the opportunities of other English-speaking countries. Australia looked too sunny and cheerful. Canada was too cold. South Africa didn't have any Universities he could transfer to. That left the United Kingdom. Cloudy, but with occasional sunshine. Cool, but not freezing. With well-developed system of higher education. To make things more convincing, London's 8 million multi-national population made it possible to mingle among people. Perfect.

His parents didn't object, knowing they could not stop him – both their children were stubborn in going for their ambitions. Frank and Joe always got what they wanted, they just did it in different ways. Frank would think things through and develop an action plan that he would follow until he ticked the objective "done". Joe would just start with what he had and when he had time, going with the flow until he was successful – people called him lucky, but he would always say he was not a nerd to stick to action plans.

With Frank packing his bags, Fenton and Laura lost two children to the summer.

His friends did not stop him, too. They knew the brothers long enough to know that if they ever lost one, they'd instantly lose the other one, too.

The only person to protest was Callie when Frank told her about his plan in a coffee house.

"Great, Frank, just great," she said to the news. "Very thoughtful of you."

Frank lowered his eyes to his cup of latte. Callie wanted to let off steam and he prepared himself for the conversation he knew would be unpleasant.

"You've thought this through, haven't you? You've thought it all, every little bit of it. Every, but one – the one that included me."

The foam of the latte started to settle. Absent-mindedly, he started to pick at it with a spoon.

"What about us, Frank?" Callie asked.

What about them?

"I feel your pain," she said quietly and put a hand above his. "We weren't the best of friends, but we _were_ friends. I lost him, too. And it hurt, Frank. It still hurts like hell. Other people lost him, too. They are hurting too. _We all are hurting_. But no one is running away, because there's no point in running. Wherever you run, you can't run from yourself."

Frank fought the tears that he thought had dried. But there were always more of them, at the memory of his dead brother.

"Frank?" Callie squeezed his hand. "Stay?"

"I can't," he whispered hoarsely and took a sip of his coffee to moisture his suddenly parched throat. He mastered all his courage to look her in the eyes, "I can't, Callie. I'm sorry."

"Stay and it'll get better. Not now, it'll take time to heal, but it will," she said pleadingly. "I promise it will heal and-"

"Don't promise anything," he interrupted her.

"Damn it, Frank, life is unpredictable," she said fiercely. "No, he couldn't keep his promise to always be there, but he tried to keep it every day of his life. Doesn't it matter?"

"Callie!" he warned her.

"I don't know why God took him, Frank. I don't know why he takes some people and lets others live a little longer-"

"Callie, please- stop!"

"But you can't spend the entire time of the rest of your life grieving and running away. Joe would have not wanted-"

"Joe did not want to die, Callie! Joe would have not wanted to have DNA tests to identify him! He would have not even wanted us to have this conversation about me grieving over him, because he wanted to live!"

His voice was louder than intended, some people turned to look at him. Callie took her hand off his and rubbed her face.

"I don't know what he would have wanted me to do, because he's nowhere around to tell me. So excuse me for having to make my own decisions about how I should spend the entire time of the rest of my life," he sharply stood up and fled out of the coffeehouse, unable to stay a second longer to finish the conversation and officially split.

That was their last conversation. They say that the English leave without good-byeing, too.

Ever since he moved to England, he only phoned his parents. Laura sent him regards from his friends, but he never took the time to call them back. The only person who decided to call directly and who took the time to understand the rules of dialling UK landline phone numbers was Chet Morton.

He never promised time would heal the pain of losing someone, he never gave a single piece of advice about how one should cope with their sibling's death. Matter of fact, he called to ask if he could stay over when he'd come in mid-November for some flowery exhibition. Mrs Morton wanted some seeds, sold exclusively in England, and Chet was kind enough to offer to fly across the ocean to get them. His rationale was lousy, but Frank didn't have the heart to say no to him.


	3. Adaptation

Moving away turned out to be a good idea. For one month.

A month was just enough to keep Frank's mind busy with adapting to the new country – and there was a lot of adaptation to do.

One thing he hadn't expected at all was language difficulties. He had grown up in English – okay, American English, but still – surroundings and believed he was fluent at it. Yet, he sometimes failed to understand some people with their crazy accents. There was a particularly embarrassing moment in the University when after a short conversation with a fellow-student he decided to complement the guy on good English and asked what part of the world he was originally from. That part of the world was just two hours away from London – Manchester, England.

Another shock came with the first bills. The last time he saw those envelopes was when he still lived in Bayport, where he just collected them and let his parents take care of those. Living on campus at NYU meant no bills as well. When transferring to London, he considered campus, but postponed the idea until later – for now he wanted to be alone, even if it meant expenses on renting a flat in London. The numbers were so shockingly huge that he cut on taking long showers and considered getting candles to save on electricity. His notebook and other electronic devices didn't work on candles, though, and he had to give up on the idea.

As long as he could remember himself, the only public transport he ever used were school busses and airplanes. In other cases, there were always cars to take him wherever – either his parents rode him or he drove himself when he was old enough to get the licence. But not in the UK. Frank didn't even bother to understand the rules of their driving on the _correct side of the road_ and didn't consider getting a car in the foreseeable future. He was reminded to "look right" at every intersection and that one of just two things he needed to know about the British roads. The other thing was to remember to top up the balance of his Oyster card occasionally.

Despite the difficulties, he enjoyed being in the country. He even loved the weather which seemed to change every half an hour. Frank got used to always carrying an umbrella even if the morning was cloudless. He loved the quietness of the neighbourhood, peaceful and quiet. The biggest mystery he knew of was the missing cat of the O'Briens. If he wanted to get crazy – as some fellow-students advised, but he never got to it – there were Saturday nights in Piccadilly Circus, where cocktails flew faster than the Thames, girls wore skirts no wider than waist belts and guys could attack if someone looked like they supported another football club.

Frank used to think that the first month would be the most difficult, but surprisingly, it went quite smoothly. He kept himself busy with getting used to his new life and the terrible feeling of loss seemed to ease a little.

It was week six when the so familiar grief returned, worse than before. Adaptation was over and his mind finally realised he was not there for vacation. Real life came back – one where Joe was no longer alive and he was totally alone in a foreign country, his mind his only companion.

Having Joe in his life was both his blessing and his curse. Joe was the only person to know the way to the depths of Frank's soul, he knew when to talk and when to stay away. He was the sociable and easy-going part of their team, and in his company the usually reserved Frank had no other choice but open up to public, too. If it weren't Joe, Frank would have probably never become close friends with their circle – Tony, Biff, Phil, Chet. Joe was his connection to other people. When he died, the connection went away with him. He didn't know how to act around people anymore. He wasn't even sure he'd ever made a friend without Joe's help.

There were nights when he would stare at his phone and look through the contact list. Deep down he knew he could dial any number and there's be an answer from his Bayport and New York friends. But he would always come across the only number he knew would never ever answer and it twisted a knife in his heart.

He remembered having a conversation with Joe, half a year after Iola's death. In the dead of night, Frank heard the keyboard clicking in his brother's room. Curiosity took the best of him and he knocked on the door.

"You know the thing that still hurts the most?" Joe asked quietly, his face white and blue in the light of his laptop screen. "There are some things that look like she's still here. Like, facebook accounts," he nodded at the screen where the picture of Iola was forever frozen as she'd left it. Forever seventeen, forever living in Bayport, Massachusetts, forever in relationship with Joseph Hardy and forever a student of Bayport High School. "People write on her wall occasionally. And seeing something happening on her page…it's tough…. Not as tough as not seeing her make changes to it, however."

Frank could not resist checking his brother's own account now, few times a week actually. Forever eighteen, forever living in Bayport, forever having 143 friends, forever a freshman in NYU (he had changed the status right after the graduation party), forever liking U2 for music and forever having "Fortune favors the bold" quote by Alexander the Great as his favourite. And forever "going to the city that never sleeps" in his status, updated in the morning of the fateful Friday.

By the fourth month of living in London, Frank was numb again. Life became a sleep-and-study routine with occasional exceptions when he'd go for a thoughtful stroll in Regents Park. He used to enjoy going there to read a book and feed fat and fluffy squirrels with almonds, but as winter approached, the days grew shorter and the weather got wetter, he had to find other activities. Like staring at Joe's phone number and checking his facebook page more often.


	4. Chet

_Huge thanks to all the reviewers – your comments are priceless._

_There'll be action sooner than you think and your questions will be answered. The most popular so far is 'why did he start to smoke and will he quit?' - the purpose of the story is not to make anyone look perfect, but to make everyone seem human. I'm a staunch non-smoker myself, so there'll be more on the topic._

"How thoughtful of them to get the underground line to the very airport," Chet said, impressed with newish Heathrow Terminal 5 station as they entered the white-red-and-blue train and sat on the seats. "My, it looks like a coach in our living room," he patted the seats, upholstered with blue fabric.

"Tube."

"What?"

"They call it tube here," Frank said. "Not underground."

Chet rolled his eyes, "I hope you don't expect me to suddenly become English just by crossing the border? Besides…" the voice of the announcer interrupted him with "Mind the gap. The next station is….Hatton Cross," message and he beamed, "Wow, I thought they only said it in the movies."

"Like hell, I mind the gap every step of the way here," Frank smiled back.

"Do they really drive on the left side of the road then, too?" Chet asked jokingly.

"Imagine, they drive on the _correct_ side," Frank replied with a soft laugh. Chet was the easiest person to be friends with – he was easy-going, kind-hearted and honest. He knew when to talk and when to say nothing.

At Joe's funerals, he kept his arm around Frank's shoulder throughout the ordeal of watching Joe's coffin disappearing six feet under and never said a word. Neither did he say anything, when Frank cried into his shoulder. Chet knew just too well that no words could ease the agony of losing a sibling.

They chatted all the way to Frank's station, never touching a subject of Bayport. Frank was glad that the topic of differences between the UK and the USA was broad enough to hopefully keep them talking until Chet's flight back.

The topic did come up, though, four days later, when Frank took Chet for a walk in Hyde Park. They walked pass a bench with a writing on the backseat.

"Pam Weiseiller was here – do sit and enjoy life," he read. Ha watched the bench for a few moments, lost in thought, and then shook his head with a smile. "This is an incredible way to remember, isn't it?" he asked quietly. "_Innit_, I meant," he added, his smile growing wider.

"There are many of them," Frank nodded at the row of the benches, each carrying a message in memory of other people.

"You wanna sit and enjoy life? My feet are killing me."

They sat in silence for a few minutes, just watching people go by – elder couples, young mothers with kids, joggers with headphones on, tourists with cameras. Everyone was moving at their own speed, but the feeling of relaxation was in the autumn air. There were distant sounds of traffic outside the park gates.

"So. How are you, Frank?" Chet asked, finally breaking the silence.

"I'm very well, thank you."

"How English of you. But seriously – how are you?"

Frank inhaled deeply and reached into his pocket to get a pack of almonds. He took a nut and tsk-ed at a squirrel a few feet away. The animal looked up, its fluffy tail alert. Frank tsk-ed again until the squired believed in his kind intentions and ran to take the food from his hand. The next second it ran away and started to bury the gift.

"How did you do it, Chet?" he finally asked.

"Got over Iola's death?" at Frank's nod, Chet put his chin into his hand. "Who said I ever did?"

Frank blinked at him. "Didn't you?"

Chet's lips curved into a sour smile, "No, Frank. I did not."

"But… but you have moved on, haven't you?"

"Moving on has nothing to do with getting over her death. Moving on is all about deciding to make your existence a little better – going to a good college, getting a nice job, having a nice pay, living in a lovely place, you name it. I've moved on, that's true. But I didn't get over her. Getting over someone's death is about finding peace again," he mused and looked at his friend. "And I'm not at peace yet."

"Finding peace again," Frank chucked bitterly. "You know…. Two years ago, when he'd chase me around the house for stealing his blanket in the morning to wake him up, that didn't seem like peace at all. And now I think those were the most peaceful times of my life."

Chet smiled to that and turned to look back at the squirrel, which found other aaawing people to feed it. The two sat in silence for a few minutes.

"Will the pain ever ease?" Frank finally asked.

"Someday," Chet answered vaguely. "But not too soon for you. Not after the bond you shared."

The bond they shared. Frank had heard the line a million times after Joe's death. The sympathetic "you were so close, I am so sorry," would haunt him for years.

"It just doesn't get better, Chet," he whispered, his voice quivering. "They say time heals, but it doesn't. Even distance doesn't. Every day is like that Friday."

"Give it more time. It'll never heal completely, but if one day you stop thinking 'what if I never asked him to come?', 'what if I threw his driving licence away?', 'what if we fought all the time and he wouldn't want to come to see me?'…well, that will be good."

Frank shook his head, "That's the trouble, I keep on asking those questions."

"Blaming yourself?"

"Sorta."

"Did you ever want to know if I blamed him for Iola's death?" Chet asked. The honestly of the question left Frank speechless for a moment. "Don't look at me like that. I didn't. When they broke the news, I thought – why didn't Joe do anything to prevent it? But the answer was so blatant that it hurt to admit he was not to blame – he didn't know it would happen… If he did, he'd move the Earth to prevent it, I know. But I can't blame people for not being psychic."

Frank threw his head back, staring at the bare benches of the trees.

"You had someone to blame, at least. Not Joe, but the terrorists. You have a reason why she died – because someone hated us and wanted us dead…. But I have no reason why he died – I don't know why God wanted him dead."

"And what difference would it make?" Chet asked. "So you'd chase the bad guy, God or whomever. You'd make him pay for it. But it wouldn't bring him back, Frank," he said quietly. "Iola didn't come back when you found Al-Rousasa…. I am sorry, Frank…. "

Frank sniffed his nose as he shook his head, "No, Chet…. You're – you're right. He's not coming back, I know…. I used to crazily hope that maybe it was a terrible mistake and he'd be alive somehow, but time goes on and…nothing happens. I've moved across the ocean but nothing has changed, you know?"

Chet put an arm around his shoulder. "You don't have to go it alone, Frank. No one thought you bad for moving to England….well, almost," he added warmly, "but we're still there for you – me, the gang, everyone. We all know how horrible it all is for you- so if you just want to talk…"

"I know, Chet. And you have no idea how much it means to me – to just know that all of you are still there, even after I basically ran away…." Frank suddenly wanted to call someone from their circle. "I'm a selfish jerk, aren't I?"

"Did you think me so after Iola's death?" Chet asked.

"Of course no!"

"That answers your question, too," Chet said with a soft smile. "You're not a selfish jerk. You're someone who lost his brother. That hardly makes you a jerk."

Frank's throat hurt with tears, so he changed the subject, "How-how is everyone?"

"Good. Not great, because you know why, but good. Enjoying the adult lives after school."

"I'll be there for Christmas. In Bayport, I mean. God knows I don't want to go back there…"

Chet nodded his understanding. The first Christmas without Iola was not merry at all.


	5. Xmas shopping

"Oh, sorry," a girl gave Frank a quick smile after bumping into him in a narrow aisle of a huge department store. Before he could answer, she disappeared in the crowds of other Christmas shoppers. Frank patted his shoulder and tried to squeeze through people to an escalator.

Shopping was not on the list of his favourite things to do and Christmas shopping usually moved the activity to the very bottom of the list. He loved choosing presents and making them, but the department store seemed to have a zillion of people this time of year – meaning crowded corridors, lengthy queues, shortages of wanted goods, hours of searching for the right gifts and bad mood and headache by the end of the day as a result.

Having finally finished with presents for his family, Frank went to the ground floor to a Christmas decorations department – his mother and aunt would love some British-styled adornments.

He made his way to a shelf with Christmas tree balls and picked up one. It was covered in a British flag ornament and he wondered, not for the first time since coming to the country, how the British had managed to make ordinary things fashionable – national flag, red telephone booths, black cabs….

Frank studied the ball, baffling with the desire to pay the unthinkable price for it. Joe would have definitely got it – he loved unusual Christmas things. But he wasn't Joe. He could go for everything Joe ever loved, collected and dreamt of – which Frank often did, he had to admit to himself – but Joe wasn't coming back. The ball that would hang on their tree this Christmas, it wouldn't be brought by Joe. In fact, it would never have anything to do with Joe.

Frank angrily placed the ball back to the shelf. Why did every object have to remind? Why couldn't he make a step without seeing small things that screamed "Joe" into his face?

"Excuse me?" a female voice asked from behind, making him jump. "Oh, I'm sorry."

Frank didn't find the voice in his parched throat to reply to the black and slightly overweight woman with kind eyes. This must have been impolite and very un-English, but he couldn't care less.

"I noticed you and the weight you're carrying," she said. "It might not be my business, but I still thought I should come and tell you. You keep thinking about someone you lost. It eats from inside, I can see," she went on. "But there's a girl around you," she nodded to the left of Frank, to nothing but thin air. "She asked me to tell you that he is not among them."

"Wh-?" Frank finally asked hoarsely, totally dumbfounded. "Among whom?"

"The gone."

He blinked at her. Was she crazy? Or did he misunderstand her accent and she actually talked about the weather?

"I am not insane," she smiled at him, sensing his bewilderment. "I am just psychic, that's all."

Just psychic, that's all. This should have explained everything and made him feel easier, isn't it?

Just then Frank noticed a psychic salon in the corner and he felt anger start to boil inside of him. An Arab woman was thanking some woman in black at the cashier, hiding a photograph into her purse. Another London tourist attraction, meant to trick people into spending money – this time on fortune-telling. That was a low blow.

"You buried someone else, she says."

"Well, thank you for your information," Frank said between clenched teeth, "but I need to go and-"

"She says-"

"Stop, damn it!" Frank raised a hand. "This is a sick way to attract customers."

"She says her name was… V- Viola? Says he doesn't have much time left," she gave him a meek smile and went back to the salon, welcoming another customer.

Frank stood there, breathing heavily. _How dared she? _He cursed, his face red with irritation.

This was rubbish. There was no one to the left of him and he was positive that piles of Christmas socks and toy antlers he stood close to couldn't speak.

There were DNA proofs, checked and re-checked three times, that it was Joe in the car and Joe undoubtedly didn't have much time left, because time had stopped for him months ago. Frank forced the tears of anger back into his eyes

He should stop this – believing in the impossible, wanting Joe back alive, seeing the reminder of him in every little thing.

He used to believe in afterlife and ghosts, until Joe's never came. There were nights when he'd pray to hear a rustle in the room where Joe used to live, but it was forever silent. There were nights when he begged Joe to come in his sleep and tell him he was in a better place and happy, but he never did. There were nights when he'd sneak to the cemetery, hoping to feel Joe's presence there, but he was always alone.

Joe just- gone. One second and there was no more him. Just ripped out of life, as if he never existed at all.

So how dared anyone come to him and talk psychic nonsense?

Something fell at Frank's feet. He sniffed, wiped his eyes and kneeled to pick the thing up. A Christmas card. _Wishing you a miraculous Christmas_, it said in golden calligraphy. Frank frowned and looked around as he rose back to his feet – he was surrounded by NY tree balls, garlands, wrapping paper, socks. But gifting cards were nowhere in sight.

His mind went numb as he stared at the card in his hand again.

He was just being silly.

He was just going crazy to dare to even think such thoughts.

He was just being over-emotional.

He just needed more time – more months, more years, more decades – to accept his brother's death.

Frank took the card to the cashier, paid £3.99 for it and went out of the department store to Oxford Street.

Hundreds of crazily dressed people, who talked in hundreds of accents and languages, carrying hundreds of shopping packs, were rushing by, ignoring the perplexed young man, who stood lost among them all, clutching a small Christmas postcard in his hand.


	6. Back to Bayport

Somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean, Frank stared out of the window at the clouds beneath the plane. The aircraft started to shake in turbulence, but he was too lost in thoughts to notice the clicking of the fastening belts or to do his.

It was December 23rd and he was going home for Christmas vacation. It was going to be a short visit, just three days, for he didn't want to stay in Bayport for more than necessary.

As the plane approached New York, the knot in his stomach grew tighter. This was going to be a sad homecoming, he knew. Staying a bathroom away from Joe's room, celebrating the first Christmas without him, meeting their friends on his own. He'd have to face everything he had run away from four months ago.

But there was another thing that nagged at him worst of all.

The words of that crazy woman kept bothering him. He was rational enough to know that she was a good psychologist and could read people's emotions off their faces – and his face clearly showed the loss he couldn't overcome. His past experience of solving crimes taught him to be careful around "psychic" people. But she mentioned some things she couldn't read off his face. Like - how could she almost say Iola's rare name correctly? Pure luck and coincidence?

He knew the case of Joe's accident by heart, he studied every nook and cranny of it. There was not a single possibility he or his father could have missed something.

Or could they?

Frank rubbed his face in exasperation. He reached into his pocket and took out the card which wished him a miraculous Christmas. It would be stupid to believe it had come out of nowhere in that department to give him a hint. There was nothing unusual about "miraculous" wishing, since Christmas was all about hoping for miracles.

If he dared to cross the thin line between the reality and hopeless hopes, he'd go crazy, he knew. It was just Christmas that was making him too emotional.

_Do you remember what you wish for every Christmas_

_Do you say a prayer and send it on a star_

_Or maybe I'm just being over-sentimental_

_But now it's Christmas and I miss us most of all_

_You know I never really took the time to thank you_

_I was always thinking you were here to stay_

_Is it something in the air that gets me crazy_

'_Cause now it's Christmas and I miss us just the same…*_

As the plane touched the landing runway, he wished it were his flight back to London already.

On his way out of the airport, Frank instinctively looked right and jumped back in surprise at a loud beep of a car that drove past him from the left. He cursed instincts.

Once in Bayport, Frank watched the familiar places from inside a taxi – the playground where he and Joe had met most of their friends, the road to school, the small shops they used to go to. Turning away from the taxi window, he once again remembered why he'd left the town. Bayport was all about Joe. Even when Joe was no longer around.

The car stopped in front of the beautiful house on Elm Street. Frank's heart was drumming in his chest as he approached the front door. He pressed the doorbell and let out a heavy sigh. He was so not looking forward to this.

Fenton Hardy opened the door and for a few moments the two stared at each other. He looked as if he'd aged even more years since Frank had seen him last, with more grey hair and deeper wrinkles around his eyes. Then the elder Hardy's face broke into a grin and he wordlessly put his arms around his child.

"Hi," Fenton whispered.

"Hi," Frank smiled in reply and let go of his father.

"How was the flight?"

"Alright. Turbulent somewhat, but alright," Frank said, closing the door.

"Your accent!" Fenton smiled in amusement. "You sure you were born American?"

"Dunno, ask my parents," Frank laughed softly.

"Oh my God, Frank!" petite Laura Hardy rushed from the kitchen to give her son a fierce hug, her face barely reaching his neck. She held him for a few seconds, before breaking the embrace, "You've lost weight, do you eat anything at all?"

"Ah Mom, you've always thought me thin. I'm the same old myself."

"Does he sound English to you too?" Laura turned to her husband. At his nod, she smiled at her son, "My gentleman. Dinner will be ready in half an hour, you up for it?"

"Yeah, it's… just 11 PM for me now, so I'm fine," he answered, checking with his watch that still showed Greenwich time. "I'll take a shower and be right down."

"Great. We're dying to hear how things are for you over there," Laura stood on her toes to give him a kiss on a cheek. At his another 'ah, Mom', she patted his upper arm, "It's just good to see you."

Frank thought she was close to tears.

He went upstairs and stopped in the corridor to look at the door to Joe's room, pain squeezing his heart. His mother has kept it exactly the way Joe had left it on that Friday – untidy and with things thrown around it. He used to scowl at his brother when he'd stumble over something. Now he'd be glad to help him make a worse mess out of his living space.

His own room was quiet and neat, as always. He put his small travelling bag on a chair and came to sit on the bed, looking around. He'd lived in this room for the most of his life, but it felt like it belonged to someone else now.

He laid back and tried to take in the surroundings. Apart from soft noises from the downstairs, the house was quiet. He remembered that it was the deafening silence that used to send chills down his spine in July. The house was never silent without Joe. Slamming doors, blaring music, loud phone conversations – Joe was never confidential about his activities.

Frank turned his head to the right and looked at the photo of himself and Joe that stood on his bedside table. A little piece of Joe was there, smiling at him from some long-forgotten party.

Before emotions could take the best of him, he quickly stood up from the bed to go the bathroom.

The dinner went better than Frank had feared, as they managed to keep the conversation light and easy. Frank found it easy to tell his family about life in England and they were genuinely interested. Fenton visited the country a lot in his line of work, but being a tourist and a resident brought different experiences. Laura was happy to know that Frank was doing well at the University – not that she expected anything else. Only his aunt Gertrude was unusually quiet.

Any mentions of Joe were carefully avoided. Frank found it both relaxing and sad. It was as if they pretended he had never existed and it was not fair to Joe's memory. Remembering his existence, though, was still too painful, and Frank wondered if they would ever get over his absence.

_* "It's only Christmas", Ronan Keating from "Winter Songs" album._


	7. At night

The clock showed 2 AM local time and Frank lied wide awake in his bed, staring at the dark ceiling. Sleep wouldn't come, despite the long flight and time difference. He'd counted all the sheep, chased all the thoughts away, and breathed as deeply as possible – all in vain. The presence of Joe's silent room was utterly disturbing.

Sighing, he sat up, rubbed his throbbing temples and stared out of the window. The winter was unusually cold and the snowflakes danced gently in the street lights. It was a beautiful Christmas time. Joe would have loved it.

Joe again, Frank frowned and almost wished he had stopped thinking about him at all, but the very thought of it scared him.

When someone dies, there are only two things that still connect you to the person – his things and your memories. That's all everyone leaves behind.

Clinging to Joe's things and memories was the worst pain Frank had ever endured in life – no broken bones, brain concussions, wounded flesh or waking up in ICU could ever compete with the ever-lasting heartache. Yet, he found comfort in that pain. After all, pain was the third thing that still connected him to his gone brother.

So why did he fear the presence of Joe's room then? He wondered. More pain was still no pain. With a sinking heart, he rose from the bed and walked to the connecting door. He stood at the entrance for a few moments, breathing heavily and still not daring to come inside.

_Just do it._ He felt a knife slice his heart when he turned the door knob.

The room was as messy as if Joe had just left it to get a glass of milk. A pile of shirts lay on the chair – he was a fashion guy who didn't go out without matching top and bottom. A pile of text-books were stored under the table, left from the graduation exams. Another two books were on the bedside table – Joe was able to read two books at a time; no arguments that reading them consecutively would give him a better understanding of the stories were ever accepted. Frank went to pick one of them – "A week in December" by Sebastian Faulks – and frowned: the storyline was based in London. The bookmark was placed at page 86.

Frank laid it aside and looked at the last thing that caught his attention: Joe's notebook. Even in the streetlamps from the window he could see a layer of dust upon it. The last time it was used was in July, when Frank searched through it for any clues of crime behind Joe's death.

Curiosity crept inside of him. He switched the computer to life and waited a few minutes before it was ready to work. Frank started Safari and logged into Joe's email account. It didn't feel right, but Joe wouldn't know anyway, right? He was not sure what he wanted to find there, but still studied the subjects of unread messages. There were almost a hundred of them, most of them from people expressing their shock over Joe's death. Some of the messages were spam and the rest came from Joe's subscriptions. Nothing new or unusual.

Except maybe one. Frank opened a message entitled "Your order with Gift4U", dated of the beginning of August.

_Dear Mr. Hardy,_

_We apologize for the delay with your order of June 26__th__ and are happy to inform you that it is now ready for collection._

_Sincerely,_

_Gift4U_

Frank frowned. He didn't know anything about any orders, especially dated the fateful June 26th. Joe didn't say he was going to stop anywhere on his way to New York and he never kept his actions in secret from his brother. Unless it was some secret order? Frank glanced at the watch and wished it were morning already, so he could drive up to the store and investigate.

He wasn't sure what he wanted more – to get the mysterious order or to know about the last moments of his brother's life. Frank closed the laptop and swirled in the chair. Curiosity was itching inside of him, pushing the last thoughts of getting some sleep away.

He turned on the lamp and stood up to walk around the room impatiently, wondering what the order could be and coming up with no clues whatsoever. At last, he eased onto Joe's bed with "A week in December" and started to read.

Half an hour later there was a soft knock on the door. Frank raised his hand to see his father glance into the room, "Can't sleep?"

Frank shook his head. "It's nearly eight in the morning in England, but it's impossible."

"So you've decided to lullaby yourself with a book?" Fenton asked with a smile, coming inside to sit next to Frank.

"In a way," Frank agreed and studied the book cover. "It's quite interesting actually, but way too many descriptions."

His father nodded and looked around the room. "I heard the noise from here. Knew it would be you, of course… The silence in this room still feels creepy."

Frank watched him, noting the same sad look in his father's face – the one he had acquainted in the end of June and the one he was trying to hide behind the "I'm strong to cope with my son's death" image. Probably, he was able to convince some people, but not his family.

"How's it been?" Frank asked quietly.

"Tough," Fenton admitted honestly, looking down at his hands. "We- we even thought of maybe selling the house, but…the house is not to blame for him not coming back home anymore, right? It still keeps lots of memories of the two of you. Over time, you just learn to choose the memories that make you smile."

Frank nodded his understanding.

"So we're coping, as best as we can. In our own way."

"Do you… do you ever go back to the case?" Frank asked meekly.

A pained smile touched the father's lips. "Often, Frank. Too often, maybe."

So he was not the only one at peace with it. "You know what still bothers me?" Frank laid the book aside and rubbed his forehead. "He could have died in any of those cases of ours…. How come he died in some stupid car accident?"

If only Fenton knew.

"I miss him like crazy," Frank whispered.

Wordlessly, Fenton circled an arm around his shoulders and welcomed him to lean on him.


	8. Gift4U

Frank fell asleep by five in the morning, but still woke up before his alarm clock went off. He quickly took a shower and went downstairs for a quick breakfast. His parents were still sleeping, so he scribbled a short note, _Will be back soon, Frank, _and went outside. Then he remembered there were no red double-deckers or black cabs to catch in Bayport. The snowy weather was no good for trying to drive after half a year of being just a passenger, but he was too impatient to wait for a taxi, so he walked back into the house.

_P.S. I'll be careful,_ he added to the note and took the car keys.

Bayport was beautiful in snow-white apparel. Despite the early morning hour, there were many people out in the streets – families driving to the mall for last-minute shopping, couples walking hand-in-hand, parents and children adjusting the last Christmas decorations to their homes. Frank couldn't help but smile sadly at them as he drove by.

"In three words, I can sum up everything I've learn about life – it. goes. on," he muttered to himself with a sigh.*

He made it to the destination in ten minutes, just in time to see a manager open the door to a small building with red neon letters "Gift 4 U" above the entrance. He pulled into a tiny parking lot and climbed out of the car, his heart pounding in his chest in anticipation.

The manager behind the counter smiled at the first customer, "Late Christmas shopping?"

"Not really. My brother made an order in summer. I'd like to collect it."

"I'm afraid he'll have to come and collect it for himself – it's our policy."

"He died," Frank still felt bitterness at the word. "Half a year ago."

The man's face fell, "Oh…. Oh, I am sorry to hear that. I actually think I know what order you are talking about, it's almost worn out with waiting. Made by Joe Hardy, right? Wait here?" he disappeared behind 'staff' door for a minute and returned with a small parcel. "I remember when he came. He was in such a rush, said he was going to the City –could barely write down the order. Here," he handed the small pack to Frank.

Frank took it with trembling hands, unsure if he should open it now or in a more private place later. Above the pack was an order receipt, signed by Joe in his uneven handwriting. "June 26 2009, 9-30 AM".

"I am sorry he died," the manager said. "He was a nice guy."

Frank nodded and touched the piece of paper tenderly. It was one of the last things Joe had held in his hands.

"When he walked out, there was a lady out there whose car broke. He went to help. Doesn't happen too often these days, does it?

Frank raised his head, suddenly all ears, "What?"

"People just rush by you when you need help, only few care enough to stop and offer help."

"No, the lady. You said he'd helped some lady?"

"Yeah, some troubles with spark plugs. He helped her out and drove off."

Frank's lips shook in offense. _Damnit._ Why couldn't that lady be some kind of a criminal and not some woman with stupid spark plugs troubles? Why couldn't she stop him from driving off?

"Did I say something?" the manager noticed the change in Frank's face.

Frank shook his head, "No, I just…hoped that maybe…. Never mind."

"Will you check it?" the guy nodded at the pack in his hands. "It's nice. But if you don't like it, we'll make changes, totally free of charge."

Frank's fingers shook as he ripped the paper off. "So cold outside, isn't it? My fingers are barely functioning," he said lamely to hide his nervousness.

"He said you kept dropping your phone and swearing like a trooper that you'd break it completely someday. So- he wanted to delay the day," the manager explained.

Frank looked at the unwrapped gift and his vision blurred with tears. It was a black iPhone cover. There was a golden painting of three letters on the outer side – BBB – "Best Big Brother", as Joe used to call him sometimes. Inside, there was a writing in beautiful golden calligraphy.

_- so you still could call even if everything crashes down around you. Love, Joe._

He covered his mouth with a hand to stop a pained cry.

"You okay?" the manager asked nervously.

Frank blinked at the gift several times, not seeing the writing clearly because of the tears. "Yeah, I- I'm… sorry. Do I owe you anything?" he whispered. The manager shook his head. "Thank you."

The manager felt for the young man, evidently touched by the gift, and found no voice to say goodbye to him.

Frank walked back to his car, his knees weak. It took him a few minutes to adjust the cover over his phone which was indeed badly scratched. With the new cover on, it looked new – brand new, even, since Joe used to call BBB "a brand in the name of Frank Hardy." Frank had warned him then that if he ever heard anyone but Joe call him BBB, he'd come up with something just as shrewd. What wouldn't he give away now to hear anyone call him that, but he was no longer a big brother to anyone, let alone the best one.

Frank held the phone in his hands, afraid to put it down and make a single scratch to it. Something had to be done about that. He got out of the car and went back to the shop.

"Hi again," he said to the manager. "Do you possibly have some kind of a capsule case for it?"

"Sure, what colour would you like?"

"Blue…. I like blue," Frank lied. It was Joe who liked blue, saying it matched his eyes. He paid for the case and went back to the car where he carefully slid the phone into it and drove off.

There was one more place he wanted to go.

He was not surprised to find a lot of people at Bayport Cemetery. He knelt beside his brother's grave and cleared the tomb stone off snow. He ran his fingers across the cold golden letters, biting his lips when he touched 'brother'.

"Hey, kiddo," he whispered, his voice quivering. "I got your gift today…. Sorry for breaking into your email, by the way, but…. We never had secrets from each other, right? There weren't any secret or compromising messages, don't worry. Just people, shocked by your…. Your death."

Frank was silent for a minute, composing his many thoughts.

"Sorry I don't come here. I didn't forget you or anything, just- moved across the Ocean. Living in London now. Remember how you joked I should speak like Sherlock with that kind of accent? Well, I can now – _p__eh__fectl__ey_… London's good. I've been good, too…." He said, but then shook his head. "Who am I lying to?…" he whispered. "I've been a mess, Joe. I- I can't get over it…. I can't accept you're gone. I moved away, but it chases me, everywhere I go."

He shivered at the blow of cold wind that sent prickly snowflakes into his face and hid his nose into his scarf.

"I miss you so much, Joe…." He looked up at the clouded skies and sniffed. "Are you out there? Are you still around?... Why can't I feel you?" his voice broke.

"Why did you have to die?" he whispered, tasting salt tears on his lips. "You-you said….here…." he took the phone out of a pocket. "You said that I could call you even when everything crashed down around me. But….." his freezing fingers dialled Joe's number, "everything crashed down, Joe, _everything_, but when I call you, all I hear is…."

"Hi, this is Joe. Can't talk to you now, but I'll call you back as soon as I can! You know what to do next!" Joe's cheerful voice announced, followed by a beep. Frank hit "end call" and put his face into his hands, trying to compose himself.

"I don't know what to do next, Joe," he shook his head. "Half a year and I still don't have a slightest idea what to do next…"

He sat quietly, a million thoughts and memories running through his head. Then he took out his phone again, looked through his iPod songs and hit to play the one he knew by heart.

_Nobody else here baby, n__o one else here to blame_

_No one to point the finger, i__t's just you and me and the rain_

_Nobody made you do it, n__o one put words in your mouth_

_Nobody here taking orders, w__hen love took a train heading south_

_It's the blind leading the blond, i__t's the stuff the stuff of country songs_

_If God will send his angels_

_And if God will send a sign_

_Well if God will send his angels_

_Will everything be alright?**_

"They're… they're playing in London next summer," Frank said. "Remember we wanted to go to their UK show? You promised to scream your head off? I said then that I'd pretend we weren't related," he rubbed his eyes. "I haven't got the tickets. I'd love to go and most of my fellow students are going, but I- it just wouldn't be the same without you there… So many things won't be the same without you…. There's so much you're going to miss out, kiddo."

Frank stayed there for another half an hour until his feet froze to the point where he could no longer feel them.

"Merry Christmas, Joe," he whispered and walked away.

_* Quote by Robert Frost_

_** "If God will send his angels" by U2 from album "Pop" (1997)_


	9. Two hours

It was the worst Christmas in Frank's life.

As much as the Hardys did their best to be cheerful, smile and show delight over presents, the atmosphere was thick with outspoken sadness. Joe loved Christmas the most in the family – he was the one to fuss around Christmas tree and take care of music, he talked the most over Christmas dinner and his laughter was the loudest on Boxing Day. Frank appreciated his parents' efforts to make up for his absence, but they all knew it would take years for Christmas to become merry again.

Meeting his long-time friends was probably the best experience of the whole homecoming. He felt rather anxious to show up at the Mortons' after keeping a distance with everyone for months, but seeing Chet, Tony, Biff and Phil cheer at him as he appeared at the door melted the distance away.

"I'm sorry, guys- for being a runaway jerk," Frank said with an apologetic smile

"Nonsense," Biff replied and clapped his shoulder. "We all were rather runaway back then, truth be told, but we knew it'd been much harder on you than any of us… we'd understand even if you didn't show up today, so it makes it twice as great that you did," he watched everyone nod enthusiastically in agreement. "How has it been it out there?"

Frank came to sit on a sofa. "It's been… how do I put it? It's been very English – rainy, bad heating, awful food, separate taps for hot and cold water, having to look right on every corner and a million other things."

"You don't look disappointed," Tony noted.

"I'm not. Most of the time, at least. It was tough at first, but then you just get used to it all – not knowing your neighbors, travelling past crazily called tube stations…"

"Crazily called like what?"

"Like… Elephant and Castle?"

Biff snorted, "Elephant and castle in London? What do they smoke over there?"

"The area was called after a coaching inn, founded in mid-eighteenth century or so. I've no idea what they smoked back then to come up with such a name for an inn, but it must have been something heavy anyway."

"Speaking of smoking, you quit?" Chet asked.

Frank had hoped to avoid the question. "I'm…in the process," he answered ambiguously.

"Why did you ever start?" Biff wondered with a frown. "I mean, I know it's been tough and all, but there are other ways to help the stress and everything."

"Well, yeah, but… I don't know…. " Frank shrugged his shoulders.

"Does it actually help the stress away?"

"Like hell."

"So why go on?"

"They don't call it bad _habit_ for nothing, do they? Seriously, guys, I'm…. I'll quit completely, I promise. Don't ever start, by the way. Doesn't make you look cool or anything. Bad for budget, too. Especially if you live in London."

"Threat of prostate cancer, too," Chet added with a meaningful look.

Frank raised his hands in surrender. "Okay, I'm officially defeated. Give me a month and I'll be fine, okay? Really. So- what everyone's been up to?"

"The delights of student years, of course," Phil replied, making him sigh in relief for dropping the subject of smoking. "University life is great, but having to study just spoils all the fun," he added to everyone's understanding 'yeah's'. "Like, there was a moment when…."

Frank didn't hear the rest of the story, lost in a memory of some party when Joe had made one inhale of a cigarette "just for an experiment" and his face had cringed in disgust. "Do people actually pay to put such crap in their mouths?"

Frank paid for so much crappier things in a week after his brother's death, wanting to stuff himself with whatever just to lose contact with reality.

It was the eighth day after the funerals when he locked himself in the bathroom between the brothers' rooms. Sitting on the floor with a bottle of cheap scotch in one hand and a knife in the other, with his sleeves pulled up, he desperately wanted to trade his life for an end of such existence. When Fenton found him an hour later, the bottle was empty. He soothingly rocked his child in his arms, while Frank sobbed into his shoulder. The knife lay aside, untouched.

Some things, like decisions to live through the ordeal, are priceless indeed.

An outburst of laughter snapped him out of the reverie. There were stories he knew he'd never share with his friends.

* * *

Frank zipped his travel bag and looked around the room for one last time, not knowing when he'd come to see it again. With a heavy sigh, he walked outside and down the stairs to bye with his family. Seeing their sad eyes made him feel worse, especially when he said to them he'd come home more often. Maybe years later he would, but for now he was shamefully relieved to be leaving.

Once at JFK airport and past all migration procedures, Frank went to a coffeehouse to pass the time before boarding. It felt like running away again, but this time balanced between the pleasure of having his friends back and the weight of Joe's gift. He wondered how and when he was going to give it- Frank's birthday was in April, all major celebrations were months ahead of that fateful June, too. So the gift must have been for no particular occasion, but out of brotherly love and care.

Frank looked at "BBB" on his phone cover for the zillionth time. It was so much like Joe to do little things that meant a lot. Sometimes it left them both in troubles, but sometimes it left Frank wanting to cry in affection for his brother.

"Announcement for passengers for British Airways flight number 0112 to London Heathrow. Attention please passengers for British Airways flight number 0112 to London Heathrow. You flight will be delayed by two hours due to non-flying weather conditions. We apologize for the inconvenience."

Frank let out a sigh of exasperation. Spending another two hours in a duty-free area of JFK airport wasn't a tempting idea. _Two hours_, for God's sake!

_Two hours?_

He suddenly froze at the thought.

With trembling fingers, he searched through his wallet for the brownish piece of paper with Joe's order for the gift and read it again, his heart drumming in his chest.

"_June 26 2009, 9-30 AM"_

His breath caught in his throat.

The manager said Joe had helped the lady and drove off straight away. In fact, he was in such a hurry that his bad handwriting was worse than usual.

According to the police reports and witnesses' statements, Joe's car crashed at 11-30 AM. But the crash site was only 10 minutes away from the gifting shop.

_Where was he for almost two hours before the accident?_


	10. Parking lot

It was a bad idea to dial a number with shaking fingers- for his phone slipped out of his hands and fell with a thud. Frank knelt to pick it up from the floor and swore under his breath seeing a scratch on the so cherished gifted cover.

"Idiot," he cursed at himself, carefully dialling the number again. "Idiot, idiot, idiot…."

"Frank?" Fenton's worried voice came over the line.

"He crashed at 11-30, but two hours before that he was in a shop that was just 10 minutes away from there. Two hours, where was he?" Frank blurted out.

"Whoa, that was too fast. What's wrong, again?"

Frank inhaled deeply to calm himself and tried to control his voice as he recalled the Gift4U story to his father. "Anything could have happened in those two hours!" he finished and waited an answer. "You're there?" he had to ask a few silent moments later.

"Yeah, I was just- thinking."

"What's there to think about? We need to look into it, the sooner the better!" Frank replied excitedly.

"You sound like Joe now," Fenton said with a soft chuckle. "Listen…." There was a sigh coming from the other side of the line.

"What's with you? I'm getting new details on the accident and you sound almost disappointed."

"I'm not disappointed. I'm just faced with the facts of six witnesses and proven DNA tests…and half a year of silence on his absence."

Frank had to sit back on a chair in the airport coffeehouse. For a minute of rapture over new facts, he had completely forgotten that Joe was still dead. Slumping back to reality was physically painful. He reminded himself to breathe.

"Frank?"

"Something must have happened anyway," he said quietly. "He was alive for two more hours and I-I want to know what he did or…or what was done to him to maybe cause the accident. Someone must be behind it." And that someone, whoever he was and whatever he did to his brother, was going to regret it.

"I'll look into it, Frank."

"You? Why just you, I'm coming back!" he jumped from his chair and grabbed his bag.

"But- your University?"

"We're on vacation until January 5th."

"Right," Fenton decided not to comment on the fact that his son had been quick to rush back to London instead of spending more time back home, when he had almost two weeks off studies. "I'll see that shop while you're going back – hopefully they still have CCTV tapes."

"Call me when you have news?"

* * *

Frank numbly stared out of the window of the train that was taking him back to Bayport. _And the award for being the idiot of the year goes to…_ he was lashing at himself again and again. Why didn't he check Joe's email sooner? Did he really have to waste months when the clue was a login and a password away? How could he try to move on with his life when-

When what? He closed his eyes and sighed. When a possible murderer was on the loose? He knew he was too hot to trot to make such conclusions yet – two hours were a long time, Joe could have done anything and encountering a criminal was just one of many possibilities. The question that bothered him the most had less to do with possible murderers.

Because he wondered if there was a chance that the murder hadn't happened at all.

Frank shook his head. He couldn't dare hope until they had facts. And the only facts he and Fenton had screamed the same old truth to his face: Joe was gone.

His phone finally vibrated with an incoming call from his father.

"So?" Frank answered and crossed his fingers.

"I have two news, good and bad," Fenton replied.

"Bad first."

"It doesn't solve the riddle."

"Okay. But the good news is-" Frank urged.

"But the good news is that there was some activity at the parking lot at around that time – with two cars involved indeed. The tape shows a very small picture of it, both cars were almost out of the security camera vision, so all I could see was moving shoes."

"And?" Frank asked, his heart beating faster.

"Apparently Joe did go to help some woman in flats, then went to try to start her car – and then the car drove off, I assume with him in it. I don't know if it ever came back to the shop or not."

"And his car?"

"Someone drove it off a minute later."

"Someone, but not Joe?"

"No," Fenton breathed. "The shoes were different."

Frank exhaled and rested his head against the headboard of his seat, his eyes closed. His head was pounding with a million questions and he couldn't catch a single one to concentrate on.

"Frank, there're still DNA tests," Fenton reminded him, though his voice sounded differently than an hour and a half ago when they spoke first. It sounded as if he was no longer sure of any facts.

"Gotta re-check them again."

"Going there already."

"Dad…" Frank called, his voice very quiet. "Do-do you think there's a chance he's alive?" his voice dropped to a whisper.

Fenton was silent for a few moments. "It's been half a year, Frank. There were no calls, no messages, no anything. Would someone kidnap and keep him just for the fun of it? I don't know…." He paused again. "I…I don't want to have false hopes, because I can't bury him again."

Frank understood it too well. "No telling Mom, right?"

"Oh God, definitely no, not at this point," Fenton shuddered at the thought of it. "I'm almost at the hospital to check the tests. I'll see you home, okay?"

"How do I explain my sudden comeback to Mom?" Frank asked.

"Dunno. How would the English have explained it?"

"Erm… Forgot my umbrella?"

"Best of luck with this one," Fenton finished the call with a soft laugh.


	11. The test

_Just a quick note – to thank you for reading and reviewing, it really means a lot to me. The easiest part of the story is done, so the gaps between postings might be slightly longer, but not too much – I don't mean to intrigue you all with waiting, but rather make the best of the story. So- thanks for staying with me. I promise it won't be long before everyone gets their questions answered._

Laura Hardy frowned, watching Frank's back disappear up the stairs. She had laughed at the forgotten umbrella joke, but a more serious explanation still left her uncertain. Taking a delayed flight as a sign to stay home for a little longer? Frank wasn't someone to believe in 'signs' and 'premonitions', meaning his sudden homeback must have something to do with his father who'd left in a rush a few hours ago. Anxiety crept into her heart and she rubbed her forearms to ease the feeling. Whatever her men were up to, she hoped her husband hadn't taken her son on a case.

Upstairs in his room and with Joe's laptop again, Frank checked if any new e-mails had arrived since he'd checked it last. There was just one new message of some friend liking a photo on facebook and nothing to shed more light on Joe's disappearance. Frustrated, he once again searched every site Joe had visited and every message he had received or written before his death, but still nothing contained threat or looked suspicious. Well, a few visits to adult sites felt somewhat suspicious, but he reminded himself with a meek smile that little brothers grew up, too.

Frank closed the laptop and checked his watch, his father should be back home any minute. He wondered if he should have gone to Bayport Memorial Hospital, too, but felt chill run down his spine at the very thought of it. Never again did he want sit by the morgue and wait for the DNA test results. Especially if they came positive.

Finally, there was a sound of a closing door from downstairs, followed by his parents' voices. Frank rushed to the door, but stopped with his hand on the handle. Laura would get even more suspicious if he was too quick to get downstairs and drag his father into the study, so he waited a couple of minutes before going downstairs to the kitchen.

"Heavenly smell," he said to his mother with a smile.

Laura smiled back, "Pasta with salmon, but it's another ten minutes."

"Okay, I'll... hang around then," Frank hoped he didn't look too excited about having ten minutes to talk to his father and walked, as casually as he could, to the study. He knocked on the doorframe and looked inside.

There was something frail in the way Fenton was standing by a big window of his expensively furnished study. He was a man who helped hundreds of people solve their mysteries, but who now wore a lost look in his eyes over the loss of his own son. He gestured to close the door and came to stand in front of the table, with an unreadable expression on his face.

"Dr. Bates and Dr. Greene, the autopsist, were both there," Fenton started. "The DNA samples don't last more than 8 days, so we got into their computer database, retrieved them and checked…. You know how DNA tests are done?"

"STR – simple tandem repeats of 16 loci. Right?"

Fenton nodded with a soft smile, "Sometimes you're too smart for your young age. You're right. So… We checked again and… they were 99,9% identical as before, meaning-" he paused.

"-meaning direct relation," Frank finished for him in a whisper and closed his eyes, not wanting his father to see him break down again. This was it, this was the end of the story- with no happy ending to it.

"Right again," Fenton said with a nod. "But."

_But? _Frank snapped his tearful eyes open.

"But then Dr. Greene noticed that 13 of 16 loci were 100% identical. The fact that the other three were 0,1% not is a mere deviation of computer calculations."

"I… I don't get it," Frank frowned.

"The doctors didn't too, because the only case when you get such results is when you take one sample and check it- guess how?"

Frank blinked at him. "Against itself?" at his father's nod, he shook his head. "I still don't get it. Explain?"

"To make a long explanation short, when they did the test in June, the result was given on comparing one DNA sample against itself. Naturally it was as positive as it could be."

"Wh-what? How is that possible?"

"The task of collecting samples and putting them into a computer database is usually given to interns. It's relatively easy, but the very test is done by experienced doctors. So we looked into the very computer records."

Frank walked closer to him, all ears.

Fenton rubbed the bridge of the nose with his fingers. "The intern…. Turned out he had inserted the same DNA sample information under Joe's and my records. He doesn't work there anymore, so we called him, he said he remembered no such thing – he had a 22-hours shift that day, as they had some crowded case of food poisoning, and he was almost going home when they asked him to collect the samples. Maybe, he said in the end, he did mess up due to exhaustion- which he hoped he didn't, of course. The guy's going to face a major examination now."

"I don't believe it..." Frank shook his head in amazement. "He-does that idiot realize what..." he was fuming with anger. Twenty two or one thousand and twenty two hours shift, he didn't care. The guy screwed up, big time, and the examination was a low price for what his mistake had cost them. "Whose sample was that in the record?" he asked, his voice strained to keep himself from lashing out at the intern.

"Not mine, hopefully. Otherwise we'd have to exhume the body."

"You did the test again, right?"

Fenton inhaled deeply and nodded.

Frank put his hands on his face, waiting for the news that he knew would put his life upside down again.

His father looked him in the eyes. "Negative. It isn't Joe six feet under."


	12. Collig's office

Ezra Collig clasped his hands together and shook his head when Fenton stopped speaking. He remained silent for a few moments, taking in all the facts about Joe's mysterious disappearance. The elderly chief of Bayport police was supposed to be emotionally-detached about cases to keep himself sane, but Fenton Hardy was more than a parent reporting a missing child. In fact, the missing child was like his own son and he spent a number of sleepless nights in hopeful search of any proof that his death was a terrible mistake – and then another number of nights when he sat by the child's devastated father and consoled him, when all hopes were gone.

"Why," Collig finally broke the silence with the most obvious question, "why do things like this happen only in your family, Fenton?" his eyes were full of concern, but his face wore a warm smile.

"Fate?" Fenton's lips curved into a weary smile.

"Fate," the Chief snorted. "What don't I know about you that you've deserved such a fate? Okay," he sighed. "Told Laura yet?"

Fenton shook his head, "I… I'm trying to come up with a reason why we shouldn't do it yet, like we know nothing but the fact that Joe just- vanished and might as well be- you know… but honestly, I just don't know what to say to her."

"The truth?"

"I'll have to, eventually- though I'd love to know more to the story by then."

"Have you checked the intern?"

"Bates has. This seems to be the biggest, but only blunder of the guy – comes from a good family, graduated from a good university, has a good record of working experience-"

"He's so good that he's basically a saint," Frank interrupted sarcastically.

As much as Fenton shared his anger for the intern, he mastered all his composure to stay calm, "Bates will look more into him, but most probably it really was just a horrible mistake. Twenty two hours shift is no joke."

Frank rolled his eyes, "If you're so exhausted, then just get out of hospital until you're well enough to do your job!"

"I'm not justifying him, but he was helping to save lives in those twenty two hours, too," Collig said quietly.

"Well, I'm happy for the cured, but why did we have to bury God knows who under my brother's name?" Frank glared at him. "Why did we have to go to someone else's grave and grieve over some stranger all this time?"

Fenton and Collig looked at each other in silent agreement to allow Frank to let steam off.

"I don't care if he was tired, inattentive or just a moron. Because of him, we lost half a year. How many cases of missing people are solved after this long? Not too many, I believe? So now he's having a- how did you put it? – a good record of working experience while we're having _what_?"

"Life is generally unfair, Frank. And human factor doesn't make it easier," his father said as calmly as he could.

"Oh, now I feel better," Frank snapped.

Fenton looked helplessly at the ceiling. His usually calm and self-composed elder son rarely opened up to reveal his feelings, but when he did, it almost scared him. Joe was so much easier to react to – he'd be glad to get a high-five from his father when he was happy or to be pulled into a comforting embrace when things were bad, but Frank… Frank would rather accept a smile and be left in solitude in the same occasions, but there was no good advice for acting around him when he was mad. Why don't children come with a manual to make parents' lives easier?

The silence in the Chief's cabinet at Bayport Police Station fell heavy. The two elder men glanced at each other questioningly.

"Shall we try to identify the car?" Collig asked tentatively.

Frank nodded, crossed his arms across his chest and turned to look at the window, obviously withdrawn into his own world. Fenton watched him, trying to get through the invisible walls of his son's soul – only to realise he must be gutted about the same things: missing details in Joe's death case and losing half a year in lousy attempts to move on with their lives. He suddenly wanted to pull him into a hug and tell him that everything would be alright – but was Frank probably thinking him responsible for missing the details and losing months? Like he himself was?...

Over two thousand people go missing every day in the USA alone. Most of them are runaways who found safe and sound within days or a week. Some are innocent victims of crime who are found badly injured or dead. Some are never found at all. But cold statistic is terrifying when it comes to time scales: chances of ever finding a missing person melt with each passing day – and become delusive when days turn into months.

And the three men knew it very well. In his twenty years of investigating experience, Fenton found only one woman, alive after going missing 8 months previously. The other eleven outcomes of similar cases had much sadder endings.

"There is a road surveillance camera not too far from the store," Chief Collig said, looking at the screen intently. "So it was June 26th 2009, a little past 9-30 in the morning… luckily there wasn't much traffic then…let's hope we spot something…." he continued to click for another minute until a picture caught his attention. "Oh well, look here – the quality is not so good, but I think this is our mysterious car."

He turned the screen for the two Hardys to see.

On the black-and-white picture there were two cars on the road, one was a truck, but the other was a Toyota Rav 4 with two passengers in the front seats. Frank's heart skipped a bit as he studied the fair-haired driver. The picture was blurred, but he could definitely recognise his brother's features.

"Do you recognise the woman?" the Chief asked, nodding at the passenger.

The dark-haired woman next to Joe looked like a ordinary passenger – she didn't hold a gun to his head or did anything that looked threatening, apart from turning her head to the driver as if telling him something.

Fenton shook his head, "It's impossible to recognise her like that. Any other snapshots where her whole face is seen?"

Collig scrolled through the images and shook his head. "But at least we have the number of the car, let me track it down…" Moments later, his face turned grimmer. "Reported stolen on June 24th."

Things couldn't be getting any worse.

"Was it ever found?" Frank asked.

The Chief nodded slowly. "June 28th. Outside Chicago," he looked grimly at the two. "Exploded in the woods in a deserted area. No one was inside."

"The local police found anything?" Fenton swallowed, holding onto the last thread of hope they had.

Collig silently shook his head.

The silence was thick with distress of another dead-end.

"When are we going to Chicago?" Frank asked at last.


	13. Run and hide

_Sorry it took me longer than usual to post – the chapter was rewritten from the scratch. Answering your comments (thanks, by the way, because sometimes I make some changes to already written things based on your smart remarks) – nope, there'll be no Nancy, sorry. I like Miss Drew in other writer' works, but writing this story is difficult enough without inviting another emotional character to it. But there could be another nice and familiar character soon, you know…could be not, too, however, as I never promised a happy ending. Stay tuned :)_

Despite popular beliefs, London winters can be relatively nice, with mild temperatures and occasional sunshine. Rain happens, too, but what's London without rains? January 2010, however, was unpredictably cold and the snow that started on January 1st didn't stop until nearly 10 days later. Most Londoners will remember the month as the coldest since 1987 and most social services will remember it as a nightmare, with traffic system collapse, heating problems and people raiding food-stores as if in fear the Ice Age had returned.

It left Frank Hardy glad he had been out of England for almost 20 days, which meant having enough supplies of tea, left from the times of abundance, and enough saved money to pay the extra bill for electricity since the heater was working non-stop since he'd flown back from New York a day ago and returned to his chilly London apartment.

The snow was falling outside the window, leaving snowdrifts on the windowpanes of Victorian houses and making people look clumsy as they walked. Frank pressed his forehead against the cold glass and closed his eyes, clutching on a cup of hot tea. TV was on and the news screamed "cold snap", "extreme conditions" and other messages of life in the UK being almost paralyzed.

What did they know about paralyzed lives and extreme conditions? He pondered miserably.

If he thought coming back home for Christmas was bad, it was nothing compared to coming back to Bayport from Chicago after almost two weeks of futile search for Joe.

The distance between New York and Chicago is around 850 miles, the car which took Joe and the mysterious woman out of Bayport was blown up at the end of their journey, just 50 miles to the south of the city. The local police found nothing but burnt metal with no clues to what had happened to the driver and the passenger. The local people of rather deserted area knew little about the incident, too, and didn't spot anyone or anything suspicious around that time. Frank and Fenton stopped at every gas-filling station and every little store on the way between the two cities to talk to the staff, but no one recalled seeing Joe. And the woman…. the blurred image of the woman left her unrecognized- and unfound.

Whatever happened to Joe and her on the way between the two cities - he and Fenton couldn't find anything. No. Anything. At. All.

After 10 days of hopeful search, they were faced with a dead-end. The decision to turn the car around and drive back To Bayport was heart-breaking and left both of them silent for the entire time of the journey, withdrawn into the misery of admitting another failure in the case of Joe's disappearance.

It was 5 miles to Bayport when Frank finally spoke, "You're gonna tell Mom?"

Fenton silently nodded. It took him a minute to find his own voice, "I thought his death was horrifying. I thought finding you suicidal in the bathroom was horrifying, too. I thought – I hoped maybe the horrors were gone and it would get better someday… But telling Laura- it will be…." He never finished. There was another minute of heavy silence before he spoke again. "I don't know what's worse, Frank. Knowing he's dead for sure but at peace or thinking he might be alive but suffering all this time."

Frank knew the feeling too well. Throughout their search, he often wondered – why didn't the woman contact them? The answer that came to his mind chilled him to the bone – if she knew the Hardys believed Joe had died in the car accident, what reasons could she have to contact them? Only to say that she held him as a hostage for some reason and he was alive. _If she didn't, then… _he couldn't bring himself to admit the obvious conclusion.

"Will you still look out for clues into the case?" he asked his father as they turned onto Elm street.

"Joe was- is my son, Frank. I won't stop looking until it's solved."

Frank nodded. "I'll keep an eye on his e-mails and other Internet accounts, too," he said quietly, knowing he'd be extremely lucky to receive another revealing message.

The beautiful Hardy home came into view. Frank watched it from a shortening distance and suddenly realized – he wanted to be anywhere in the world but in that house. Later that evening, he booked a nearest flight to London and hurriedly left, leaving his father to tell the story to Laura and letting them grieve over the second loss of their youngest child. It felt cowardly and traitorously to run away again and he made no excuses for himself. But when he shut the door to his cold London apartment, he could literally shut everyone out and spend hours tête-a-tête with his depressed mind – until he found a reason or desire to communicate with the world again. Which, he thought, would be soon because he was dying for a pack of – no, no cigarettes, since was true to his ambition to quit – Walkers Pure Butter Shortbread.*

Maybe, he thought, he'd go out to a local Tesco later, but for now he turned away from the window and went back to the sofa. Frank stared at the TV screen, but saw through it. His mind was far away, still going over details of Joe's case. There should have been something else, something more he could have done or come up with. There should have been a clue. There should been a sign. There simply should be something he could do.

Minutes ticked, but his mind remained blank. Possibly, the best thing he could do was to get a hot-water bottle in bed tonight, he thought gloomily.

With a sigh, he switched attention to the news channel. Weather is a popular topic in the UK, but it seemed to be the only topic those days as the video showed snow-covered hills, muffled-up children, complaining elderly men and blue circles of low-pressure cyclone over the British Isles.

The anchorman shook his head at the end of it and gave a smile for the viewers, "But someone felt much warmer earlier today. The National Lottery spokesperson said of the massive Euromillions win – quote, "We are delighted to have another huge Euromillions winner here in the UK, following so closely to last November's record breaking jackpot winners. We have plenty of champagne on ice and look forward to welcoming the ticket holder into the millionaires' club", unquote. Well, someone did get their share of miracles this winter, didn't they?" he finished with a soft laugh. "Coming next…"

Something clicked in the back of Frank's mind and he frowned. "_Share of miracles?" Don't be stupid._ The more he thought about it, the more foolish it felt. The idea was blatantly crazy, but his heart started to beat faster at the thought of it, as if telling him to at least give it a try. After all, he couldn't think up with anything better.

He looked at the watch, relieved to find it too late to do anything about the idea tonight. Though, there was still time for a pack of Walkers Shortbread.

* Scottish cookies ®


	14. Reading

Still in slumber, Frank hid his nose under a blanket in hopes to fall back to sleep. Judging by the dimness of the room, it was still early in the morning- and it felt so warm under the blanket that he sleepily wished he could lay like that for days, until better weather arrived – warm and sunny and… When he woke up again, rain was drumming outside.

Frank groggily stared at the window with water streams instead of snowflakes on it. The streets would be slushy today and it killed the last bits of desire to get out of bed, go outside and follow the idea of yesterday's evening. He wondered if he should just give it up and think up something else.

_Coward_, his inner voice taunted him. That made him throw the blanket away- leaving him gasping at the chilliness of the air.

Half an hour later and a cup of hot tea fuller, he walked out into the street and rushed to the nearest tube station, with the only stop at a local Boots to get a sandwich. A barbeque chicken wrap caught his attention. "Barbeque chicken minus the smoke in your eyes and the British rain," it promised and he couldn't resist, given the drizzling weather.

It was five minutes past ten when he exited Bond Street station. Despite the early hour of a nasty January day, shoppers have already started to crowd the Oxford street, but luckily for Frank most of them were walking past a large and rather brandish department store. The fewer people saw him, the less humiliated he felt for going for it.

The Christmas decorations were changed to "sale now on" signs. On the way to escalators, Frank overheard a woman telling her friend that "_that's_ the three words every woman wants to hear most of all; who needs all those I love you's and be my wife's when you have 50% off Gucci, darling." Women.

Anxiously, Frank walked to a small black-curtained corner on the ground floor, just across the decorations department where he had encountered that 'just psychic' woman and got the "Wishing you a miraculous Christmas" card almost a month ago.

What prompted him into coming back there, he couldn't understand. Was finding the e-mail from Gift4U miraculous? Well, it was a miracle he had been so dumb not to check Joe's mails sooner, because he thought he was smart. Or was coming back home from Chicago empty-handed and broken-hearted again a miracle? Only if surviving through that pain of losing twice could be thought of as miraculous. Desperation was the only reason to come back to the place.

A woman behind the counter smiled at him, "Can I help you?"

"Hi," Frank forced a polite smile in reply. "I was wondering if I could have a…well…."

"A reading? You are lucky today, dear. Usually we're booked to the fullest, but a client fell sick and Melanie is available for half an hour. Lucky circumstances for you," she beamed at him.

"Brilliant," Frank hoped his joyful voice didn't sound too fake. _Booked to the fullest? People gone crazy?_

"Melanie?" the woman called. "She is really powerful, you'll love her," she added quietly to Frank.

A middle-aged Asian woman looked from behind the curtains and smiled at the early customer, welcoming him into a tiny space behind the curtains, with only a table and two chairs. The lights were dimmed, creating a mysterious atmosphere. Frank took a seat and wondered – and not for the first time this idea had crept into his mind – if he was a psycho to spend £50 on this.

"I don't bite, so don't be so uptight," Melanie said to him from across the table with a smile. "I know that guys don't come here with light problems, but I'll need you to focus on whatever terrible has happened to you."

Frank said nothing as he shifted in his chair, determined not to give a single hint. If she was any good, she'd have her own ways to see 'whatever terrible has happened to him'.

"I'll do clairvoyance, but will look into cards before that to get a better understanding of what's torturing you, alright?" at his nod, Melanie put the pack of card on the table. "Divide this into three piles, whatever way to like, just think of your problem while you do," she watched the nervous-looking man do the trick in silence.

Thinking of his problem has become his second nature, Frank thought sadly as he finished with the task.

Melanie turned several cards over and watched them in silence for some time. "Dark picture for you, indeed. What the cards tell me is that there was a wheel of fortune for you, sometime in summer, but it wheeled away from you. Took the happiness away. Took someone you loved very much away from you."

_Tell me something I don't know_, Frank thought. What a waste of time and £50.

"Looks like you've moved across the water. But it's still going downhill for you. That someone was… not a girl, it's a boy, about your age."

If she said it was a boyfriend, he'd stand up and go, he decided.

"The boy from your family. Brother."

This was not a question, but a statement and Frank's annoyance turned into curiosity.

"He's suddenly out of your lifeline," Melanie raised her eyes at him. "You've come to ask about him, not yourself."

Frank nodded.

"He died, but you don't believe it. Well," she sighed heavily, "if you had his hand to do the cards, it would be much easier to say. You see, the cards tell the story of the person who's shifted them, but they can't tell for someone else," Melanie said with an apologetic look on her face.

"So- you can't tell then?"

The woman closed her eyes and massaged her temples. "You didn't just go by this place and thought to come in. You've come deliberately, so my guess is that- someone could have told you about a girl near you?"

Frank felt cold at the words. "Yes," he whispered, suddenly nervous. Could this be true the ghosts of dead people followed him? The thought sent shivers down his spine.

"She knew both of you well, you and your brother. Died very young, saving your lives…. Lots of fire, terrible, terrible death."

"Can she say- say if he's-"

"I don't hear them, I can only see the pictures they're sending to my mind. I can see you and her in this store, lots of Christmas thing around….you and her while you're sleeping- she must have tried to get to you through your dreams, but you've shut everyone out, shut your mind to everyone."

"What about my brother?" Frank asked, his heart drumming in his chest.

Melanie was silent for a moment and then shook her head, her eyes still closed. "There's a picture of someone between heaven and earth, she keeps showing it to me. As if he's in between."

"What does it mean?" Frank asked hoarsely.

She shook her head again. "I-I don't know. She- they, the gone, they can't talk much."

"What does she mean?"

Melanie opened her eyes and looked sadly at him, "I don't know the answer."

"Is he dead or alive?" Frank pushed fiercely.

"He could be and he could be not. 'In between' may mean many things for them. He may be near death, fighting for life, or," she paused, "he may be a lost soul, stuck in between two lives."

Frank put his face into his hands in desperation. Why couldn't he get an answer to a question as simple as that – was Joe dead or alive? The answer would take just one word, why couldn't he know it? _Please, Iola,_ Frank begged, closing his eyes. _Please, tell me, tell her. Please, I must know._

"A lake, a very big lake," Melanie broke the silence. "Does it tell you anything?"

Frank shook his head in dismay.

"It's cold, there's snow around, it's winter. You and someone else are there, driving a lot."

The trip to Chicago, Frank realized. On the way, they drove past Lake Erie.

"I see you by…some kind of a motel with some red sign, you and another man."

Fenton wasn't a fan of motels, but he and Frank had no other choice one night when they searched a deserted area of Northern Ohio and it was too late to drive to Cleveland in search of a better hotel to get some sleep.

"There's some kind of a house, a small one, right by the lake, not too far from the motel," Melanie swallow and opened her eyes to look at Frank, "Do you recall anything?"

"The lake and the motel I do, but the house…no," he shook his head. There must be thousands of small houses by Lake Erie, most of them deserted in winter and awaiting summertime tourists. They checked several of them and were able to talk to only four people, none of whom saw Joe. "What's in the house?"

Melanie didn't speak for a minute. "She isn't sending me any more pictures," she said at last. "She's just keeping this small house in my mind."

The small house it is. By Lake Erie. Not too far from the motel with the red sign. "Is there anything else you could say?" Frank asked quietly.

"That brother of yours, quite a unique character. People usually have one angel-guard, but he has two – that girl, in heaven now, and you, here on earth. You were born before him for a reason, you know? So you'd be there since his day one in this lifetime. He's very protected."

Frank chuckled bitterly, "Doesn't look so if he's missing."

"It wasn't your fault. You're a protector, but that doesn't mean sticking to him 24/7. All things happen for a reason, to teach us something. From what I saw from the cards, you've pursued dangerous things in life. Like attracts like. The dangerous stroke back."

And they said being good paid. "What's the lesson then?" Frank asked.

"That's only you who'll know," Melanie shifted more cards and nodded at the last of them. "There's a revelation coming your way soon. It doesn't say what it will be – if your brother is in between here or out there. But it's in a house by a lake where you'll find the answer."

_Author's note. Two actually. One - yes, I read 'The Shack' and no, the next chapter is far from that (in fact, it'll be one just chapter away from the truth, finally). Two –I don't encourage anyone to solve their problems with clairvoyance. Remember that this is a piece of fiction._


	15. A house by the lake

The door opened. "Hello, sir," Frank greeted the man at the entrance and showed him a photo of Joe. "I'm looking for my brother, he went missing in the area a few months ago. Do you think you might have seen him?" this was the same line he repeated over and over again and he knew it would haunt him for years.

The man took a photo from his hands and studied it for a few moments, then shook his head. "I'm sorry, son, I haven't seen him," he answered with genuine sympathy in his voice. "Hope someone else has."

This was the most typical answer from over fifty people he had asked. He nodded with a polite smile and went back to a hired car.

The second day of travelling across the shoreline of Lake Erie was coming to an end. It was getting dark quickly and Frank wanted to check a few more houses before heading back to the motel with the red sign. As he learnt from the night before, local people weren't eager to open their doors to strangers when darkness fell, fearing unwelcome visitors.

"A small house by a lake near a motel with a red sign" turned out to be a very indefinite direction. The area was scarcely populated and houses stood at a distance from each other, so Frank spent more time driving than talking to the people. With each new "I'm sorry, I haven't seen him", the possibility of finding anyone who has was fading and his anxiety was growing. Joe went missing in summer and local people were his only hope because even if some visiting tourists might have spotted something, it would take months to trace them in their faraway homes.

Probably, with his father on the journey, they'd have already finished combing the area, but Frank was alone in his search. Inviting Fenton to this trip would mean having to tell about the clairvoyant and he wasn't sure how his father would react to that, with Joe gone without a trace and Frank obviously going mental. And if after such a revelation their rescue left them with nothing again, Frank didn't know if he'd be able to look his parent in the eyes.

He stopped in front of another house, with lights on in the windows, and watched it sadly for a minute. Every person saying "I'm sorry" was killing Joe again, in Frank's heart. He knew they were genuinely sorry for him and he didn't blame them for having no news for him, but it felt unfair that they had families and lives to go back to and he had another house to visit.

Joe used to love the optimistic "Impossible is possible" ad campaign and his optimism gave Frank new strengths to go on when he felt like giving up.

"_What on earth makes you think this will work?"_

"_I am an optimist, Frank," Joe said cheerfully._

"_An optimist is a badly informed realist," Frank replied back with a sign._

"_Nerd. Let's go."_

Joe had his own mood swings, particularly bad after Iola's death, but he never lost a sparkle of life. Through his days of depression, he never once stuffed himself with alcohol and nicotine or thought of taking his own life, like Frank did after his brother's death. Through his worst days, Joe made himself go on with not just happy memories, but actions, doing the little things Iola would do, like helping strangers, reading her favourite books and watching American Idol occasionally.

Two years later Frank found himself doing just the same. Tea with milk wasn't his English habit, it was Joe's childish love. Blue shirts were never his favourite, it were Joe's eyes they matched better. He so wanted to keep his brother's alive in continuing his habits that he gave up some of his own. What he still couldn't adopt from Joe was his everlasting optimism, though.

Without much enthusiasm left, Frank climbed out of the car, walked to the door of another house and knocked on another door. There were shuffled steps from inside.

"Hello, sir," Frank forced a smile for the old man who had opened the door. "I'm looking for my brother, he went missing in the area a few months ago. Do you think you might have seen him?"

The man looked into the photo. "I am sorry," he said and shook his head.

_Yeah, hope someone else has seen him and stuff like that,_ Frank finished for him in his mind.

"But you should go ask Kenneth," the man suggested. "Last summer, he found a badly injured boy in the woods. Kenneth lives just down there," he pointed at a distant light by the lake.

Frank felt waves of heat in his body as his breath caught in his throat. He managed a harsh 'thank you' and ran back to the car. "Please," he begged every god in heaven as he drove beyond every speed limit, "please, please, please…" He reached the distant house in three minutes and hit the brakes.

His heart pounded in his chest as he knocked on the door and looked at the dark skies. "Please," he prayed quietly again, "please."

The door squeaked open by an ancient-looking man.

"Hello, sir," Frank said the so familiar phrase, his voice shaking with anxiety. "I'm looking for my brother, he went missing in the area in summer. One man told me you had found someone, can you please see if it was him?" he gave the photo to the man. Behind his back, his fingers were so crossed they hurt.

The old man's nose was almost touching the photo as he studied the face on it. "Doesn't this fella look cute and lively here, eh? Nothing like the bleeding poor thing when I found him," he replied.


	16. Cleveland

_By requests - a longer chapter with the answer at last :) Huge thanks to each and every one for reading and reviewing._

"They said it was a miracle he was alive for so long," Kenneth said, watching Frank drive. "He was in such a bad shape, lost so much blood, there was just no chance to survive."

Frank could barely see the road ahead of him as tears swelled in his eyes and he gripped the steering wheel tighter. Kenneth was in the passenger's seat, telling the story of how he'd gone for a walk by the lake a little away from his house and found a barely breathing and badly bleeding young man.

"He was slipping in and out of consciousness while we waited for an ambulance to arrive. I tried to ask him his name or who did this to him, but he was just choking blood, poor fella. Could only blink to my questions, if he had a family or remembered who'd done this to him. My heart was bleeding for him," the old man sniffed. "This country is just going nowhere, if youngsters die like that for nothing."

"Didn't he…say nothing at all?" Frank's voice was trembling with emotions.

Kenneth shook his head, "He tried. I asked him his name, so I could find his family and tell them… But he couldn't make a sound, just kept looking at me and clutching my hand. There was so much agony in those eyes. I've lived here all my life and never, never did anything like this happen."

Frank's mind was drawing heart-wrenching pictures of Kenneth, wrapping a jacket around his brother who was slowly and agonizingly bleeding to death from the numerous stab wounds. He could imagine the fright in Joe's eyes when he knew he couldn't utter a sound and tell the old man to pass his last words to his family. Frank shivered at the images.

"Do you believe in angel-guards?" Kenneth asked, snapping him out of his thoughts.

Frank chuckled. Did he believe in angel guards? After all that's happened over the last month, he was ready to believe in anything – angel-guards, the miracle of stem cells, the mystery of Stonehenge, UFOs. "Why?" he asked to avoid the answer.

"When you're old, you believe in such things. I'm 82 years old and I've never wanted to live as much as I do now! And I want to know that when I die, I'll live on, even if in afterlife. And you know what, young man, when they took your brother away, I did believe that maybe there was an angel-guard that was keeping him alive for so long. Eleven stab wounds! And he was alive for three hours after that, how is that possible unless someone keeps life in your failing body?"

Frank didn't know.

"It was as if he was kept alive at least until the ambulance came. And it was only there when his heart stopped beating…. They said it was a miracle he was alive for so long," Kenneth repeated, shaking his head.

They were quiet for a few minutes, driving down the streets of Cleveland. The closer they were to the destination, the colder Frank felt inside.

"Did the police find anything?" he asked Kenneth, breaking the silence.

"Nothing. However they believe it was a woman- there were footprints in the ground, woman's ones. They led to the main road and disappeared there."

"No road cameras?"

The man shook his head.

That woman again. Frank closed his eyes for a moment, trying to compose himself.

"We tried to find his family, but he had no ID with him. The police checked if there was an APB on someone who looked like him, but…"

"But there wasn't," Frank finished for him, nauseated with himself. If they hadn't screwed up with DNA tests, they'd alert the police straight away and wouldn't have lost so much time. "I hate myself…" he breathed barely audibly.

"I felt so bad for him. Such a nice boy, you could see it in his face…. I go to visit him from time to time, don't want him to feel left alone and forgotten. I keep telling him that someone will come to find him, no matter what. And at Christmas, I made a wish- because you can make the most cheeky wishes for Christmas- that someone showed up. And look- there you were standing at my door!" Kenneth's lips curved into a smile.

"You wouldn't believe the events that led me to standing at your door," Frank smiled back weakly and turned serious again. They were almost there.

Whoever sent that "Wishing you a miraculous Christmas" card had a crooked sense of humour. Why did they have to make the search so complicated? Couldn't they just drop a map of Ohio with indication "you should look here" at his feet, instead of the card?

Frank pulled into a parking lot, shut the engine and climbed out of the car. He waited for Kenneth to join him and together they walked to an elevator.

"Maybe now that you're here, you can talk sense into him?" Kenneth said when they walked in and he pressed '7'. "Maybe he will wake up now that he'll have you? After all, who am I to him?"

"You're the one who saved his life," Frank said, watching the numbers change as the lift went up. He turned to give the old man a soft smile.

"But I'm not the one worth waking up from coma for after half a year," the old man sighed sadly.

The corridors of Cleveland Memorial hospital were buzzing with activity. Frank watched the visitors sipping coffee or fidgeting on plastic chairs in the waiting room as nurses and doctors were rushing past them. He tapped his fingers impatiently against the reception table and received a stern look from a nurse. "Sorry," he mumbled and clasped his hands together.

"There he is," Kenneth pointed at a doctor from around the corner. "Dr. Stanley!"

"Kenneth," the middle-aged doctor shook the old man's hand with a smile and turned to look at Frank with a smile. "When he called to tell me he was bringing a relative, I could not believe it."

Frank shook hands with him. "I'm Frank Hardy, Joe's elder brother."

"I'm Dr. Stanley, I've been treating- Joe Hardy, if that's his name then- since he was brought in. We honestly didn't dare to believe someone would come for him after all."

"This is a very long story," Frank said over a lump in his throat. "How is he?"

"I believe Kenneth has told you many things already. Overall, he's fine, been stable for three months-"

"Was he not for the first three?"

"I wouldn't say so. When he was brought it, we didn't know where to begin with him, he had 11 stab wounds and lost a terrible amount of blood, but surprisingly the internal organs were not that damaged. He was critical for the first couple of weeks. Shall I tell you more on the way to his room?" the doctor offered.

Frank nodded and they started to walk down the white corridor. He thought he heard his drumming heart echoing off the walls.

"He's healed over time, physically," Dr. Stanley went on, "so we hoped he'd wake up from coma rather fast, but….it's been over half a year now."

"What are the chances?"

"He's somewhere between level three and four, closer to four actually, so the official conclusion is rather pessimistic," they stopped in front of a door to a hospital room. "But honestly, I don't know. No one does, because coma is tricky and unpredictable. Some people wake up from it within days, others within decades. Some never. Some people are never themselves after just a few hours in it and there are cases when people woke up after years in a coma and were back to normal lives…. What I can tell you from my own experience is that the chances are higher if there's a loving family with a comatose patient. Which is why we so wanted for someone to show up for him."

Frank nodded his understanding, not finding a voice to speak in anticipation.

"Okay, I believe you won't need me there, so I'll leave to see other patients. If anything, there's a call button in there," with a nod, Dr. Stanley walked away.

Frank turned to Kenneth, "Thank you. For everything. I'll never thank you enough."

"Nonsense. But promise to call me when he wakes up?" the old man asked with a kind smile.

"Absolutely."

With his heart sinking into his boot, Frank turned the door knob and quietly went into the dim room. He walked to the hospital bed, watching the motionless person in it. His knees gave way under him and he eased onto a chair by the bed, never taking his eyes off the peaceful face he had thought he'd never see again.

He watched it for a minute.

And then he began to sob.


	17. Vigil

Frank woke up to the dull pain in his neck. He tried to raise a hand to rub the soreness away, but found it holding onto something. Eyes still shut, he tilted his head only to feel the pain get worse. Finally he blinked his eyelids half-open and frowned at the picture in front of him: two clasped hands with a plastic tube above them. _Strange_.

It took him a few moments to notice the soft and warm feeling under his cheek and then it hit. _Joe_. Frank raised his head from his brother's abdomen and rubbed his aching neck with a free hand for the other one was circled around Joe's motionless palm. For a few moments, Frank watched his respiratored breathing, still afraid to believe this was not a dream.

Even if it was, it was not a good one. Half a year gone, the woman was on the loose and without Joe awake they couldn't find her. But Joe was asleep for months with little chances of waking up. The circle closed up.

Still, Frank smiled at the peaceful face of his brother and patted his hand. "Morning, kiddo," he said quietly with a yawn and glanced at his watch. "Ready to face Mom and Dad soon?"

In the middle of the night, he had left the room for ten minutes to make a phone call to his father. Probably, "hi Dad, it's Frank, I'm calling from Cleveland hospital" wasn't the best way to start the conversation, after all.

"_Hospital? What happened?"_

"_No, I'm fine, really-"_

"_And what are you doing in Cleveland? Aren't you in London?"_

"_I'm fine and I'm not in London. I found him, Dad," Frank said._

_There was a pause. "Found who?"_

"_Joe. He's here, in Cleveland," when Fenton said nothing to that, Frank added, "I'm serious, Dad. I found him. He's in a coma, has been for half a year."_

"_Frank, tell me this is not a joke or mistake, because this has been too much."_

"_This is not a joke or mistake. When you come, I'll explain everything, okay?"_

"_I-I'm coming. But wait- how?"_

"_I'll explain," Frank repeated._

He was so not looking forward to giving the explanation. On his way back to Joe's room Frank saw Dr. Stanley filling out papers at the reception and exchanged waned smiles with him.

"Sometimes I envy my comatose patients, they can sleep off like nobody's business," the doctor rubbed his neck tiredly.

"The feeling passes when you think you may never wake up, I guess?" Frank asked.

"There comes a day for all of us when we don't wake up, Frank. But hopefully it's when we're old and not as young as your brother."

"He's always been a sleepyhead, but half a year's his personal record," Frank replied with a sigh. "I thought he would- thought there would be some kind of an indication he knows I'm here. I know it's crazy to think so, but I really thought he would react somehow."

"Give it time. It's not what they show in the movies, when someone suddenly opens his eyes and basically starts to move like after a good night's sleep. If it's going to happen, it'll be real slow."

"If…" Frank noted him saying.

"I don't want to be cruel, Frank, but it's an 'if'. I really want to say 'when' and tell you he'll be fine and there'll be no complications. But technically, his level of coma indicates significant brain damage- it cannot control the body and perform the simplest functions, like breathing. I have to be honest with you that even if he wakes up, no one can predict what he will be like," Dr. Stanley said with sympathy. "But there're always chances for recovery. Always. But you'll need to have patience."

When Frank returned to be by Joe's side, he gave a prayer to every god in heaven to just bring his brother back, whatever he will be like. He took Joe's hand back in his and looked at the beeping and blinking devices. The machines, which monitored Joe's life signals, gave no indication he was aware of the visitor. It made Frank feel betrayed, but could he blame Joe for being non-responsive? After all, it was him who ran away across the ocean, leaving his brother totally alone in his fight for life.

"I won't mind if you wake up just to tell me you hate me for failing you like that," Frank said. "For stopping to look for you. For leaving you alone through this. Wake up and I'll listen to everything rude you have to say about me, I promise…. Wake up, Joe. Even if you'll hate me…. Wake up."

He talked for what seemed like hours. He recalled the whole accident case. He told him why he had moved away to London. He told a few stories from his English life, about the University, the accents, the sandwiches, the mind the gaps, the getting used to it all. But none of this seemed to be of interest to Joe. Frank looked helplessly at him, not knowing what else to say to get a reaction.

"Remember a year and something ago?" he asked. "When I was in ICU after that bank robberies case? When I woke up and there you were, looking like shit –hair a mess, eyes bloodshot, face unshaven? Remember?

"You said then, that if I died you'd never go back to normal life. And I said you were stupid to think so and that if I did die and there was afterlife so I could still watch you, I'd want to see you move on and to see you happy – have a nice job, a lovely house, a beautiful wife and wonderful kids. It would flatter me to know you'd remember your big brother from time to time, but I'd want you to have a great life. Remember?

"And then you looked at me and asked me to promise that it would be exactly what I'd do if you died. Remember? I hated you then, the way you played it out to your advantage. But I promised- because I never thought I'd have to keep the promise. And soon you died – or so we thought…. I-I swear I tried to keep my promise, kiddo…." Frank whispered. "But it just- it's just it's hard to have a great life without you around…. I love you so much. Please, wake up."

* * *

It was around nine in the morning when there was a soft knock on the door and a nurse walked in to make the regular check on the patient. Frank reluctantly walked outside and suddenly his body reminded him of its own needs, as his stomach both threatened to explode and demanded for some food.

He was pouring a cup of tea from a coffee-machine when a female voice called his name. He turned around to see his tearful mother run to him, followed by his father. Laura wordlessly wrapped her arms around her elder son. Frank patted her shoulder while giving a brief explanation on Joe's condition and looked at his father, whose face was a mix of happiness and puzzlement. There was a major talk coming, Frank knew, but did it really matter how he'd come to find Kenneth?

He desperately wanted to be back by Joe's side, but urged his parents to go see their son and went to the cafeteria to get some breakfast.

* * *

Two weeks later, they transferred Joe to Bayport Hospital, causing all their friends to give up on their winter activities and rush to see him. For the first time in months, Frank genuinely smiled at them as shook their heads at the unbelievable outcome.

"You are a walking miracle, Frank," Chet said over coffee in the waiting room while Phil and Biff went to see Joe. "I mean, there was nothing out there that could possibly indicate Joe was alive – and you still find him. Just-just how?"

Frank wondered if he could tell him about the clairvoyant quoting Iola, but decided against it. Maybe someday. But it reminded him of one important thing he had to do.

Frank laid a bouquet of white roses upon Iola's grave, looked at the grey cloudy skies and smiled.

"I owe you so much," he said. "You gave your life to save his. And you were there to hint about the house by the lake- or whatever that was. I will never thank you enough, Iola. But- thank you. Thank you so much more that words will ever say."

He sat silently for another few minutes, mastering all the courage to say what he'd come to say.

"Melanie, back in London. Remember what she said? That Joe had two angel-guards – one in heaven and the other here on Earth. You and me. You've-you have done an incredible job out there. But…. you can let him go back," he said with a smile, having an eerie feeling that someone was smiling at him, though he was alone in this part of the cemetery. "He'll be in good hands, I promise... I promise to be just as good as you've been."

For a brief second, there was a ray of sunlight between the snowy clouds. Frank knew he had been heard and there was a warm feeling in his heart. "Good to have you as a teammate," he laughed softly and sent a silent prayer for the girl.


	18. Awakening

_Terribly sorry about the delayed update, but I'll try to post another chapter within a couple of days to make it up to you._

_Merry Christmas everyone._

He heard soft voices, but couldn't make out what they were saying. There were blurred images of some familiar-looking faces, looking down at him and disappearing as blackness came again. Consciousness came and went and he couldn't cling to it to make it last longer than a few moments. Sometimes, he felt being moved. There were times he came to to the feeling of someone holding his hand or touching his face.

There was a moment when he felt someone kiss his forehead, leaving a warm tear on his skin. He was surprised to sense his father's aftershave then.

All the sensations would come for mere seconds – short moments between him slipping back into nothingness. Those voices, they sounded so happy, urging him to do something, something he couldn't understand. And those faces – why did they look so happy in their blurriness?

Gradually things were becoming clearer and he was more aware of those moments of consciousness. He was in a hospital bed, with something sticking into and out of him. It itched like hell, but he couldn't move a finger let alone reach out his hands to scratch the sticking things away.

His parched throat hurt when he tried to talk to a nurse that had come to check on him and asked those familiar faces to leave for a few minutes. She let out a surprised "you're talking!" and called someone. Soon there was a commotion as more people in white came running in.

A familiar looking man in a white hospital gown asked if he knew his name. The reply came out in a childish-like high-pitched voice and the face above him beamed. He though he was just laughing at his funny tone of voice. Feeling weaker with each passing second, he promised himself to tell the nasty man in white it was not polite to laugh at people in hospital beds and fell back into unconsciousness.

When he woke up again, the nasty man was gone and there was a panda in a chair by his bed and it was holding his left hand. _Since when are pandas allowed to hospitals?_ his sluggish mind wondered, studying the pale face with big dark eyes and black circles around them. And why did the animal's paws felt so strange?

"Why isn't your hand fluffy?" he asked in a hoarse whisper.

The panda looked confused. "Erm…. I don't know," it admitted.

He continued to look at it through half-opened eyes. He was sure he had only seen a panda once in his life, in NY Zoo when he was seven, it was chewing lazily on a bamboo stick. Was it the same panda? Because it looked familiar.

The panda patted his hand with both of its warm hands. "Do you… do you recognize me?" it asked. Its voice sounded afraid.

_The voice._ Pandas didn't talk. Not in that voice. That voice could belong to just one being on the whole planet and it was not a panda. He blinked his eyes, straining his blurred vision, until panda's features cleared to reveal an anxious human face. Those dark brown eyes, on a tired-looking pale face, that afraid voice-

"Frankie?" he breathed.

The face before him cringed and began to cry into his hand.

Joe ran his weak hand through his brother's tousled hair, until Frank calmed down enough to look back at him. He looked like a crazy panda now.

"You…. I'm…. I thought I'd lost you… forever," Frank whispered hoarsely and sniffed.

What was he talking about? And how did he end up in hospital, by the way? But more importantly-

"Why are you in a sweater?" Joe asked barely audibly. "You're a hot guy, I know, but it's mid-summer."

"It's mid-February, Joe," Frank replied, not surprised to see confusion in those sleepy blue eyes. "You were in a coma."

"Wh-" Joe frowned. "How long?" his head hurt too much to calculate the number of months between June and February. Six? Seven?

"Over half a year," Frank's answer confirmed his bad suspicions.

Joe blinked at him. How could it be? It was just days ago when he was going to New York, wasn't it? On the way, he made a single stop at a small shop and... Or was it not just days ago? His heartbeat accelerated as memories started to rush through his mind. There was a car by the shop, where a woman pressed a gun into his ribs and told him to drive and not to attract attention. They took another road, heading to the west. The beepings of the heart monitor became more rapid.

"Easy, it's okay, you're okay now," Frank patted his hand and swallowed nervously. "You're going to be alright."

_You're going to be alright… just hold on, fella. _The voice belonged to some old man who wrapped a jacket around his bleeding body. The pain. So much agony…. Joe's breath cut in his throat, he moaned at the memories and shut his eyes. The woman, the blade of the knife slicing through his skin, her walking away….

The grip on his hand became stronger. "Joe, please, relax, please," Frank begged, afraid to see the rate of his brother's heartbeat. "Joey…"

Dr. Bates rushed into the room, "What's wrong?"

"I think he's remembering what happened to him," Frank said quietly, his heart throbbing at the sight of his brother's anguished face.

Without a word, the doctor filled a syringe with a medicine and injected it into an IV. Within moments, Joe's heartbeat slowed down to a normal rate.

Joe's eyes opened slowly. "Is she- is she in jail?" he asked his brother.

Frank's heart sank into his boots and he lowered his head, unable to look his brother in the eyes. He shook his head and placed his hands over his face. Dr. Bates sensed the uneasy conversation and excused himself to leave the room.

"Why?" Joe asked.

_Because I'm a dumb jerk! _"We- didn't know you were alive," Frank said quietly instead over a lump in his throat, rising his eyes to his brother's confused face.

"Why?"

"This is a very long story, really long," Frank sat back onto the chair and patted Joe's weak hand. "You're not strong enough for it yet, but I promise to tell you all when you're better, okay?"

"You thought I'd died?" Joe's tired eyes were full of anxiety. Frank didn't reply and it if weren't for the medication, his heart would race again. "She left me to die- and told you I'd died?"

This was not the best time to ask, but Frank hoped the question would take his brother's mind off the burning anxiety. "Do you remember her name?" he asked.

"You believed I'd died?"

Frank sighed. "I nearly forgot how persistent and pushy you are," he said with a smile.

"You did," this was not a question, but a statement from Joe whose face was a mixture of exhaustion and concern. "Frankie…." he tried to grip his brother's hand, but weakness was taking the best of him. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry-"

"You're not the one to blame, kiddo, so don't you think of apologising. You're alive and getting better and that's what matters."

"Amanda Jeff," Joe whispered, blinking his eyes tiredly. "Her name is Amanda Jeff."

Frank nodded his understanding, "We'll find her, I promise."

"Did you really think I died?"

"I really think you need to sleep to get better sooner," Frank replied with a smile. "We'll talk when you wake up, alright, kiddo?"

"You sound too English," Joe whispered and closed his eyes. Within seconds, blackness took over him.

Frank stared at his sleeping brother. He hadn't mentioned a thing about England since Joe woke up.

* * *

Fenton walked through the doors of the Bayport Hospital cafeteria and found his elder son with a plastic cup of latte. "Old coffee habits die hard, even after half a year in England on tea with milk?" he asked, taking the opposite seat.

"Hate tea, especially with milk," Frank admitted with a soft smile. "So- what's the news?"

"The news is that there're several Amanda Jeffs in Chicago, they've checked the most of them, one look particularly suspicious, so I hope we're close to finding her. Speaking of particularly suspicious," Fenton said, scratching his chin, "you didn't tell and I didn't want to push you, but- how did you end up in Ohio?"

Frank took a sip from his cup. "Promise not to put me into a psychiatric ward here?" he asked.

By the end of the story, Fenton, as Frank anticipated, was rather amused with how he'd come up with the idea to check the area by Lake Erie. "That's…an interesting way to investigate things," he said.

"Gosh, it felt _so_ stupid."

"Well, maybe it was stupid, too, but it worked, didn't it?" when Frank said nothing in reply, Fenton ran a hand through his hair. "To think I've spent years scrutinizing files and details when I should have just bought myself a pack of cards…"

"Dad!" Frank hissed, his cheeks turning crimson.

Fenton laughed, "Just kidding. Seriously, Frank, I don't really care what you did to find him- because I don't know what else you or I could have done. He's alive, he woke up and he's improving- I swear, I couldn't care less about you going to a psychic salon as long as Joe's going home and you going back to being your relaxed and happy self. Really, nothing is more important to me."

"There's one more thing I wanted to say," Frank said.

"Shoot."

"I don't want to do detective stuff anymore," he lowered his eyes not to see his father's disappointment in him.

Surprisingly, Fenton let out a relieved "Thank. God."

"Thank God?" Frank looked at him with a frown. "I thought you'd be disappointed."

"About what? You going your way? That's hardly a disappointment, Frank," Fenton said. "Doing detective stuff is my life, it doesn't have to be yours or Joe's. As much as it flattered me, I never wanted you two to put yourself in danger."

True. Frank and Joe used to keep some of their cases unknown to their father, especially those he asked not to take because they were too dangerous. "It seemed fun," Frank sighed. "Until last summer. I-I never want to go through anything like this again."

"Neither do I. I want you boys to be happy, but most of all – I want you to be safe and sound. And if you two choose something less dangerous to make a living, you'd make my life much happier, too," Fenton patted his son's head affectionately.

"Dad! You have Joe back for doing that!" Frank scowled at the gesture of affection. "Let's change the topic. Your birthday's coming, any hint for the desired present?"

"A pack of cards, maybe?" at his son's sniff, Fenton laughed softly.


	19. Joe's story

_The door behind Joe squeaked closed and he wrinkled his nose at the rain falling from the canopy of a small gifting store in the outskirts of Bayport. It was supposed to be summer after all! He could only hope the weather would improve by the time he'd make it to New York. It usually was hard enough to drag Frank away from his studies and the rain would make it worse, giving him another reason to stay in-home. As Joe started towards the car, a smile curved on his face at the image of his brother getting his gift._

"_Erm, excuse me?" a female voice called from behind and he turned to see a middle aged woman by a silver Toyota Rav 4, with a helpless look in her eyes. "Do you know anything about the cars? Mine doesn't start and I'm- I'm just officially blonde about it," she smiled sheepishly._

"_Sure," Joe nodded. "Can you try to start it?"_

_The woman climbed behind the wheel when he lifted the hood. The car bleated for a few seconds and died away. Joe scratched his forehead and leant further to see the insides of the vehicle._

"_It moved just fine, then there was this funny noise from the hood and I had to stop," the woman said, coming to stand to the left of him._

"_You left the car out of your site lately?"_

"_Yeah, why?"_

"_Because someone messed up with your spark plugs, they're ripped off," Joe pointed inside the hood._

_The woman's eyes went wide. "Oh my- why would anyone do that? Can you fix it?"_

"_Yeah, give me a moment. But whoever did this is no good- neither to you for doing this in the first place, nor at trying to break your car, because it's easily fixable. You have enemies?"_

_She thought for a second before nodding._

"_Well, make it up before they do something more serious," Joe unbent from under the hood. "Try the ignition again?"_

"_Oh- can __you__ try that? Maybe I'm doing something wrong there…" the woman blabbered with an awkward smile._

"I don't know why I got behind the wheel, because right then I knew something fishy was going on," Joe said with a sigh, his eyes lowered to his hands. "I mean, she was blonde and everything, but even blondes can start the car, right?"

Chief Collig gave him a soft smile. "You never know with the women."

Frank snorted to the comment, but remained silent. They were in Joe's hospital room, along with his father and Con Riley, to hear the story of Joe's disappearance. It was a week after his awakening and he insisted he was strong enough to recall the details.

"So- I got behind the wheel," he went on.

_There was a rustle from behind and a barrel of a gun was pressed into his ribs. "Try something and I'll shoot," a man said from the back seat._

_The blonde woman shut the hood closed and rushed to get into the passenger's seat._

"_What's all it about?" Joe asked calmly, though his heart started to drum. _

"_It's all about doing as I say, no tricks," the woman held her own gun at him. "You drive and you live. You pull a trick and he'll kill your brother," she nodded at the man. "Go get his car and I'll see you at the place?" she said to him, never taking his eyes off Joe._

"_If I know anything happened along the way, dear Frankie will be dead, I promise you," the man hissed and left the car, satisfied with the alarmed look in Joe's eyes in the rear-view mirror._

"I watched him drive away in my car. We waited a minute before she told me to go. I drove off."

"What was the destination?" Fenton asked from the seat next to his son's bed.

"Dunno," Joe shook his head. "She said to make a turn to the West and I did, because… you know," he glanced at Frank who put his face into his hands with a heavy sigh.

That was not the first time they were threatened like that, when criminals used the other brother as the target. Frank would gladly die himself to save his brother's life, as long as Joe was left alone, safe and sound. But knowing Joe had done just the same was heart-wrenching.

"She told you who they were?" Chief Collig asked.

"Not back then. I tried asking, but she would just give me stares and tell me to shut up. So we drove for a couple of hours and it was just irritating. I thought of leaving a trace, but- we just drove, I couldn't stop and do anything," Joe sniffed. "Thought I'd wait until we'd stop at a fuel station or anything."

The room fell silent. Frank exchanged glances with his father and saw the same worry in his eyes. Joe was obviously uncomfortable, but they needed to know the story to catch the woman.

"Did you know your own car crashed?" Con broke the silence.

Joe nodded. "She-she dialled him a number of times, but he was not answering. After an hour or so, she went crazy…"

"_The number you are trying to call is not reachable," Joe heard her phone say into her ear and watched her hit the 'end call' button angrily. Armed women were bad. Armed and angry women were worse and he decided to keep his mouth shut. They were driving further to the West and deeper into the less populated areas, with fewer and fewer cars along the way. It's been four hours and his back hurt from sitting too much._

_The woman tried to call again only to hear the same line. "Where the hell are you? Call back now!" she roared into the receiver._

_Joe glanced at her. The woman's face was a mixture of anger and fear now. Things were not going the way planned, he could tell, and he prayed the man hadn't got to Frank._

"She then decided to check the Internet, I think," Joe went on and rubbed his hands nervously. "She must have checked Bayport news or something, because she suddenly went ballistic- shaking her head, repeating 'no' all the time, shaking her hands…. I guessed something had happened to that guy…. She called someone, must be the police, because she asked about the accident with the car with my number and about the driver," he paused to exhale. "The driver was dead on spot."

Frank took his hand and squeezed it.

"She was silent. Shocked... Started to sob… I should have tried to grab the gun out of her hands, but I was- was thinking that you'd think it was me in there," Joe looked at his father who wore a pained look in his eyes. "Before I knew it, she started to scream and kick and…."

"_You, bastard! He's dead! Dead!" she screamed, her eyes red with tears. "Your bloody family ruins everything! Your bloody father puts my husband in jail, now my brother is dead in your bloody car! I hate you! I hate you! I HATE YOU!" she screamed between the sobs that shook her body. "You little miserable piece of-" She started to beat him with fists and the gun._

_The car started to sway side to side and Joe had to hit the brakes before they crashed._

"I didn't have the belt on, so- I hit my head against the wheel. Badly. Couldn't see anything because of the blood. Could barely hear her scream at me again," Joe sighed. Frank's grip on his hand became stronger. "She said she'd drive and made me get into the passenger's seat. She was driving a hundred miles an hour, could barely follow the road bends and I seriously thought she'd kill us both."

"Did she make any stops?" Chief Collig asked.

"Once, to fill the tank. She left the car and I tried to get help, but my head was buzzing so badly I couldn't even move. Just glanced at her purse with cards, one had a name on it- Amanda Jeff. I blackened out then…. I came to when I fell out of the car- or rather she pulled me out of it. She had this crazy look in her eyes and I knew she- she…." His voice quivered.

Frank patted his hand. "You don't have to if-"

Joe shook his head, "No, I'm- I'll- better now." He inhaled deeply. "We were in the woods, I had no idea where or how far away we were from any towns or anything. She was hysterical… crying… swearing. I tried to stand up, but she kicked me down…. There was a knife and I got real scared. Told her I'd not press charges if she didn't do anything- but she kept screaming about her husband and brother, how we ruined her life…. I hoped somebody would hear her and come, but it was just a middle of nowhere…. I knew you'd look for me once you knew the driver was not me," he looked down at his shaking hands, damp with cold sweat. "But I knew if she killed me there…" he couldn't go on.

Frank daren't look at his brother.

_The knife fell from the woman's hand and she put her shaking hands over her face, watching what she had just done. Blood was oozing out of the boy's chest and his face cringed in agony. She shook her head, as if not believing her eyes. She started to back away from the dying young man, still shaking her head, seeing him choke blood._

_She picked up the knife and ran to the car._

"I…" Joe said over a lump in his throat. "I knew I was a goner…. Couldn't move…. Just waited. To die. But it didn't come…. Was slipping in and out of consciousness… Then an old man came... I was weak. Exhausted. Knew he was my last chance to let anyone know- to pass the message to you. He asked me something, I tried to say my name, to ask him to contact you- couldn't. Just couldn't… And then- nothing," his voice was barely a whisper.

"Will you be able to recognize her if you see her?" Con asked, his heart going out for him.

Joe nodded, unable to look up at anyone or utter a word.

The room was quiet for a few moments. Fenton stood up to walk to the bed and pull his younger son into a hug. Joe hid his nose into his father's neck and allowed him to comfort him.

"She'll never hurt you again," Fenton whispered into his ear, patting him on the back. "Nobody will ever hurt you again… Believe me?"

Joe nodded into his neck.

Amanda Jeff was found in Chicago the next day and charged with murder attempt. She was more astonished at the "attempt" incrimination rather than charge itself. "That son of a-" the door of the police car slammed shut behind her before the neighbours heard the end of it.


	20. Choice

The rain started early in the morning and its soft rustle made it impossible to hear anything from behind the door. Frank stood in the adjoining bathroom, irresolute. He knew he was overreacting, but there were times when he anxiously thought that finding Joe was a delusion and he would wake up, back to his pain and loneliness. That's when he'd creep to the door to hear his brother move around, smile in reassurance and go back to his room.

But right now he couldn't hear a thing. It was still an early morning and Joe was surely sleeping, but- what if Frank couldn't hear anything because something had happened? In an instant, his hand was on the door-knob. He waited a moment, before pushing the door and peeping into the room.

The curtains swayed a little, letting the cool air from the ajar window, but other than that everything was still and quiet. Frank tiptoed to the bed and leant over the motionless figure to check the breathing- when he realized he was being watched.

He raised his hands in surrender with a sigh. "Alright, I'm caught."

"Not for the first time," Joe said sleepily with a yawn. "And not only you, by the way. Dad was here an hour or so ago. After Mom three hours ago…and before her was aunt Gertrude."

"Oh…sorry, we-we didn't think we were waking you, you never showed," Frank said apologetically. "Thought you'd sleep like a baby after all the medicine they stuffed you with in hospital."

"Babies wake up every other hour and cry," Joe pointed out.

"I guess. Well…. sorry," Frank repeated.

"Thought you'd stop after a few nights, but I start to think there is a competition between the four of you- on who'll fuss more over me."

Frank smiled and sat on the edge of the bed.

"I know you're still worried," Joe suppressed another yawn, "but they wouldn't let me out of hospital if there was a chance of me dying in my sleep."

"I know," Frank nodded. "I know, but….just give us time, okay?"

"Do I have a choice?" Joe chuckled.

Frank smiled briefly before turning serious. It took him a few moments to gather his thoughts together. "I'm just worried- still worried- and will be worried for some time to come- about… you and everything. I mean, I know it's hard for you, getting back to life and facing the trials soon and having to stand us fussing over you and- well, you got the idea… So give us time?"

There was a nod from Joe and the two were silent for a few moments. Frank started to rise from the bed to go back to his room, when Joe's voice stopped him.

"You know, I'd rather face all this than think you died."

"What?" Frank looked at him in confusion.

"It's confusing, really confusing to wake up and be told that you'd been out for half a year- and not just out, but dead to the world," Joe swallowed. "But then you think-what about those people who actually believed you dead?... I wouldn't wanna be in your shoes through all this, Frankie," he added quietly. "I don't know what I'd do in your place."

"Hopefully not what I was doing," Frank replied with a sigh.

"You did the right thing. I don't mean starting to smoke, of course-"

"I quit!"

"I know, I know. I meant trying to move on, to get a life, going to England and stuff."

"Yeah, right," Frank snorted. "Good for me for running off like a coward."

"Nothing cowardly about it. And better that than getting to drugs, getting suicidal or- something like that."

"If I stayed," Frank said slowly, "if I stayed, I could have gotten to that message sooner."

"Could have, should have, would have," Joe wrinkled his nose. "There's no such thing as alternative reality. You could have or you could have not, so why stuff your head with it?"

Frank sighed, "I don't know, Joe. I guess I still hate myself for all this mess with the DNA tests and not being there to see that message in time and running off and-"

"Brother dear. If it weren't for you, I'd still be a John Doe in Cleveland."

"You wouldn't- you woke up at last, remember? What would you think of us, of me if you woke up to know that we buried you? That we gave up on the case? That we stopped looking for you?"

Joe was silent for a few seconds. "That would be a disappointment, though, given all the circumstances, I'd understand," he said. "But I don't know if I would wake up at all if you didn't get to me."

"What do you mean?"

Joe scratched his forehead. "You ever wondered if there's life after death? I know it sounds funny coming from me," he added with a soft laugh.

"The answer would sound funny coming from me too since I went to see that psychic woman. So I guess I do. Though….it still feels freakish… I don't know. Why?"

"When she- Amanda- when she left," Joe said quietly, "and I knew I was dying, I knew I couldn't utter a sound to Kenneth to pass my last words to you….you know the scariest thing about dying?"

Frank watched him in the dimness.

"It's not even all those thing you didn't say, didn't do or those that you won't say or won't do. It's not even about yourself. The scariest thing is- it is knowing how much it'll hurt some people. You wanna say to them- I'm sorry I couldn't fight it, I'm sorry it was stronger than me, I'm sorry for dying, but please be happy, I want you to be happy- and when you can't…it's the scariest thing of all- not to be able to say the last I love you's."

Frank patted his knee with a smile, "Love you, too, kiddo. Thanks for the phone cover by the way, though it didn't stop me from dropping it again."

"I'll get you another one when needed," Joe replied with a smile.

"What was it for, by the way?"

"No particular reason, just for being you."

"Thank you," Frank breathed. "You know, if it weren't for this gift…." He sighed and didn't go on. This gift saved his brother's life and his own sanity; he thought he would never underestimate the meaning of small things again. "Soooo… what's heaven like?" he asked with a smile to ease the atmosphere.

"No idea, didn't make it there."

"So you just- blackened out and woke up months later?"

"Kind of, yeah. But sometimes there was this feeling…" Joe paused as if considering to say the rest. "Sometimes there was this feeling of in-between- as if you can't go up, but there's nothing to ground you, too. As if you're stuck and can't move without someone's help."

"Did you know I was there when we found you?"

Joe nodded slowly. "That's the thing. Suddenly there was a feeling of something to hold on to, to pull myself out…. So when you torture yourself with all those 'what if he woke up and I weren't around'- I don't know if I'd ever wake up if it weren't for you in the first place, so- thanks for showing up."

"Anytime," Frank replied with a smile.

"Thought you can stop showing up in the middle of the night, you know."

"Yeah, yeah, I know. I'll- I'll try."

"You can even get back to London, because it seems to me you've been off your studies for too long. It'd be a shame for me to tell people my once smart brother has become an ignoramus."

Frank snorted. "I'll take the shame."

"Come on, I'm serious, Frank. I appreciate you fussing over me, but I'm not going anywhere for some time now," Joe said. "You can always move back and transfer back to NYU, but do finish the semester there and think things through. Maybe you'll want to stay there for another year."

"I want to stay where I know you're safe and communicate with you."

"Ever heard of such things as telephones, e-mails, instant messengers?"

"They're not the same-"

"Planes that fly from the US to the UK and back?"

"Why do you want me away so much?" Frank asked jokingly.

"I want you to have a life."

"I have a life, thank you."

"Had any friends in London?" Joe asked.

"No," Frank admitted.

"Ever went to a party there?"

"No."

"Had sex at least?"

"Joe! For God's sake…"

"Get back to life, Frank. To real life. I might be a part of it, but there's more out there. I'll be just a phone call away and come visit and stuff. And I'll be fine, I promise," when Frank said nothing to that, he coaxed, "just consider it for now at least, okay?"

"Alright…" Frank found it easier to agree than to continue the argument.

"Good. Now get out and let me sleep," Joe made himself comfortable under the blanket. "No need to check on me in an hour, too, by the way."

Frank stood up from the bed. "Love you too, kiddo," he said with a smile "Love you, too."

* * *

The screen lights reflected off Frank's face as he watched the web-page of British Airways. The 'confirm' button was teasingly red and 'back' was sheepishly blue. He was a click away from booking a ticked to London and he couldn't bring himself to push it.

"To be or not to be…" he muttered to himself and leant back in his chair, weighting the opportunities to either start over in the UK, knowing Joe was alive and safe at home where his parents would take good care of him until he was well enough, or stay with his brother while he would adjust back to being alive.

It took him minutes to make a decision. With a sigh, he pressed the button he thought was right...

The end.

* * *

_Here's where I'm leaving you to think the ending to yourself. Is Frank going back or is he staying home? Whatever the choice, it'd be a story for another story. Most probably, I'll write it sometime soon._

_This is my first fic in over six years, so while I still have your attention, I want to say HUGE thank you to all the readers and reviewers – the numbers of you exceeded all my expectations and it means a lot to me. Thank you. It was really interesting to know your opinion both on the story and some topics – like, smoking. I'm a non-smoker myself and I'm actually glad to have received such a number of 'yuck, smoking?' comments._

_Anyways… If you feel like saying something on the story, I'm still open to comments and even critiques._

_Once again- THANKS!_


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